The Italian Job
by Maevenly
Summary: Hermione's job centers on keeping foreign dignitaries safe. Harry makes it Draco's job to watch Hermione's back while Gianni de Arsuaga is in town. It's also Draco's chance to make sure his witch knows the true extent of his intentions and attentions.
1. Chapter 1

Hello All~

Yep - my facination with Draco and Hermione continues!

This time, the story stemmed from an invite to pinch-hit for the Dhficexchange over at LiveJournal... Lots of good stuff there, my friends. I SO recommend checking it out! Here's the link, minus the spaces: http : / dramione - duet . livejournal . com /

This time, our intrepid Harry Potter characters are 25 years old, and this story completely disregards The Epilogue - may it long lay in infamy. The chapters are going to be erratic in length, mostly due to the cadence of the story!

As always, I'd LOVE to read what you think!

YOU ALL ROCK!

Here were the stipulations:

Dominant! Draco

Strong! Hermione

Compliancy: Post-DH, Epilogue? What Epilogue!

Era: Post Hogwarts

Rating: R, or, NC-17

HEA/HFN for Dramione

Absolutely NO Ron or Harry bashing; they're best friends!

Must contain the line: Men are from Mars, women are from Venus - where does that leave us?

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><p><strong>The Italian Job<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Tuesday, 5 July 2005<strong>

**Half-past one in the afternoon…**

Shacklebolt's impromptu meeting had re-prioritized everything on Harry's desk.

Gianni de Arsuaga was due to arrive in three days and Hermione was firmly fixed in the Florentine's cross-hairs.

Which was why, despite the inordinate amount of work Harry had to do in order to prepare for Arsuaga's arrival, he had cleared his schedule for the afternoon, locked his door on his way out of his office, and made directly for the Department of International Wizarding Affairs.

With Arsuaga formally requesting Hermione as his official liaison—just like every other time he visited British soil—Harry was automatically assigned as the Special Auror-in-Charge of Arsuaga's supplemental security detail. As Hermione's best friend, it also fell to him to pry her out of her office, take her to their favourite Muggle café—the one that served the tastiest all-day breakfast—and give her the time and space to vent about being saddled—yet again—with overseeing every aspect of Gianni de Arsuaga's impending stopover.

Which was why he pushed the plate of chocolate ganache cake closer to her side of the table—at the moment, she needed it more than he did. Not that she wouldn't make sure he got his fair share. This was what they did. Every time they went out to eat, they ordered with the intention of sharing. Call it a holdover from eating in a tent for nearly a year, or from passing loaded plates to each other at the Gryffindor dining table—the reason didn't matter. It wasn't going to change—ever. Much like their friendship. Harry was convinced that even after he, Ron and Hermione died—which was going to be a very, _very_ long time from now if he had anything to do with it—they'd find each other together in the afterlife. The three of them were just _that_ connected.

The wan smile Hermione gave him pleased him immensely. It was the second genuine smile she'd flashed since he first spirited her out of DIWA and away from the Ministry.

"Yes, Harry—that's _all _my job is." She waved her fork as she rose to the bait he'd laid about her 'cushy' career. "Endless cocktail parties, glamorous balls, elegant garden parties and decadent soirées at the poshest and most exclusive venues from one end of the wizarding world to the other."

Harry waited until he'd swallowed before he called her on her sardonic tone.

"You're so full of shite, Hermione." His admiration for her sparkled brightly. "You love it and you know it; researching customs so that you and your team don't commit a cultural faux pas, performing background checks on anyone and everyone associated with any event you've been tasked with organizing or attending." He could never _not_ tell her how proud of her he was or how impressive it was that she did what she did so brilliantly. "Not to mention the fact that you're on a first-name basis with Madam Malkin. There's nothing that woman won't do for you. She doesn't like anyone and only tolerates a select few."

He wasn't telling Hermione something she didn't already know. Malkin had grown eccentric since Diagon Alley's reconstruction. The fashion maven was well known for looking down on her clients because, as she said, 'the majority of her patrons wouldn't know wizarding couture if it draped itself over their heads'. For Hermione, though, the hoity-toity seamstress rushed any alterations she required and never failed to meet a deadline for her dress robes and gowns.

Hermione huffed, her disdain having everything to do with Arsuaga's proposed itinerary. "Too bad Madam Malkin doesn't include a 'Slag Rags' line in any of her collections."

Harry snorted at their mutual predicament. She wasn't the only one who had to find an 'appropriate' outfit for Saturday night's excursion. Gianni de Arsuaga only partied at the trendiest, hippest clubs. Proper attire—a euphemism for high-end, barely-there, Muggle clothes—was mandatory.

"How many people do _you_ know that have house accounts at Tarts-R-Us?" she groaned into her next bite of pancake.

"True," Harry conceded. There was a whole section of Hermione's wardrobe that came from that particular boutique, even if Hermione hadn't used the establishment's real name. But he knew exactly what to say to turn her mood around. "But the expression on Ron's face when you showed up at Gianni's hotel wearing that dress—the one barely held together by all those tiny buckles and oversized safety pins— cor, Hermione, it's been nearly a year and he _still _can't talk about it without turning all red and blotchy!"

Hermione chuckled at the shared memory of Ron's nearly having an aneurysm when she'd stepped out of the lift. Their friend had nearly taken off his own shoes for her to wear so that no one else would be able to see the ridiculously sexy boots Hermione had teamed with that particular ensemble.

She narrowed her eyes at Harry, but her disapproval at his success in side-tracking her with food, conversation, and good cheer for the past hour was countered by her love for him. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing, Harry James Potter."

He spread his hands wide, the epitome of a man glad to take credit when credit was due.

The table top was cluttered with bowls, plates and dishes. A savoury vegetable frittata sat alongside a stack of extremely fluffy amaretto-laced pancakes, a bowl of clotted cream and a parfait of fruited yoghurt and house-made granola. A half-full pot of tea, a measure of warmed syrup, pats of creamy butter, the sinfully decadent chocolate cake and a generously-sized wedge of raspberry-peach pie had all been sampled. There was no way, given Hermione's frame of mind and the reason for their joint consternation, any of that food was going to see the inside of a doggy bag.

Hermione pressed her fork into her bit of frittata, appreciating its aroma before she popped it into her mouth. Harry scooped a spoonful of cream and dotted it on his pie. They both savoured the excellent flavours. Breakfast, regardless of when it was served, was easily their favourite meal of the day.

Hermione leaned back, her tea cup balanced between her fingers. He easily read her wistful expression; he missed Ron's presence, as well.

"When does he come back?"

"Friday morning, at the moment. He's escorting a witness back to London and Apparation isn't an option."

Hermione smirked knowingly. "I hope she's cute."

Harry rolled his eyes. As usual, she was spot on. "Yeah—he volunteered before the rest of us even caught wind of the assignment. Crafty bastard." But he held no grudge for being beaten-to-the-punch. Harry loved the fact that neither Hermione or Ron held any bad feelings about their half-hearted attempt—which had lasted all of three utterly uncomfortable days—to be more than just friends. She truly enjoyed encouraging Ron's love-life, now that there was no chance of said love-life including her.

Harry couldn't resist taking the opportunity to have her re-examine her own choices in that area. "What about you?"

His question caught her mid-sip. He knew that he was lucky that they were wearing dampeners, or she would've hexed his arse to next Monday for broaching the one subject she'd already declared 'Something for Another Time'. "You _know_," was all she needed to say.

He did. He didn't understand her… _fascination_, but he did understand _her_, on many different levels. Because of that, he pressed his luck and her indulgence. "So, you mean you haven't even _thought _about—"

She cut him off with a wave of her hand and an air of resigned finality. "You know that the only thing I think about, pertaining to _him_, is staying out of his line-of-sight as much as humanly possible."

Harry didn't push her any further. He knew better. When she was ready to tell him more, she would. Just like she'd shared the first, second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth times her path crossed with _his _over the past two years.

A good-natured wave of his hand stopped her before she could claim a bit of quid pro quo. "And no," he said, "we're not going to talk about my non-existent love-life either."

"Fair enough."

It'd been years since he and Ginny had parted ways. It had been a clean break and it was one he didn't regret making He was genuinely enjoying his bachelorhood. His preference for uncommitted companionship didn't make him a man-slag, but it kept his life relatively uncomplicated and he liked the fact that he didn't have to be responsible for anyone else—aside from those he considered his 'family': Ron, Hermione, Ginny on a platonic level, and a handful of others, most of whom carried the last name of Weasley. He and Ron shared a four bedroom flat. The third bedroom was always kept ready for Hermione—just as she kept a spare bedroom ready for them at her flat—and the fourth they'd converted into an office so that he and Ron could work from home. Thanks to Hermione's cleverness, and a few well-collected favours from within the Ministry, an un-registered Floo-connection existed between their two flats and individual offices.

Harry pointed at the cake again. "You've got to try that, though. I think it's better than last time. I'm definitely going to order a piece to take home with me."

Hermione eyed the dessert warily. He could seeher internal debate: _should I or shouldn't I?_

"Yeah, Hermione—you _so _have to worry about that." He rolled his eyes at her. He drizzled a bit more syrup on her pancake, just to prove his point.

Between her morning run, during which he sometimes joined her, the near constant state-of-motion her job demanded, and the strenuous duelling sessions the three of them shared on a regular basis, Hermione's figure was neat and trim. Her healthy eating habits and modest indulgences made sure her curves stayed in all the right places. How did he know? One couldn't be in someone's pocket for as long as the three of them had without the occasional 'whoopsee'—their code-word for when any one of them caught an eyeful, or more than an eyeful, of one of the other's wobbly bits.

The bond between the three of them had only deepened as they'd grown older. They weren't joined at the hip; they each had their own jobs, things they loved, and things that drove them barmy about each other. But they were joined at the _soul_.

At present, the fact that Gianni de Arsuaga was more of a nuisance instead of a significant threat was the reason why the Florentine walked without a limp and still had the use of his nearly negligible faculties. Harry and Ron would see to it that anyone who posed a serious threat to Hermione would spend their remaining years lamenting the worst mistake of their pathetic lives. Anyone who ever even _contemplated_ hurting him or Ron had more to fear from Hermione than from anything or anyone else.

Back to Gianni…

Harry set down his fork. Hermione did as well, picking up on the subtle change as his persona shifted from commiserating friend to on-task Auror.

The details of his meeting that morning rose in his mind. "You do know why Arsuaga has asked to be lodged in Muggle London and party in Muggle Soho while he's here, right?"

Hermione nodded. "What do your people have to say?" She turned his question round and bounced it back at him. She effortlessly transitioned from lamenting female to cagey diplomat.

He didn't take offence at her tactic. This was where they had to walk the fine line between who they were to each other and their chosen professions. He also knew that her network of whisperers and tittle-tattlers was as good as his own network of reputable and disreputable informants.

"That Arsuaga doesn't feel safe inside the wizarding side of London." He wasn't telling her anything she didn't already know.

She picked up her cup again, and looked at him over the rim. "So far, it's all conjecture. Nothing solid or definitive." She tipped the cup to her lips and drank. She'd clearly been giving this a bit of thought. "What's eluding me is the 'why'. Granted Giannni de Arsuaga is the Prince of Prats—"

Merlin, did Harry appreciate her skill with alliteration. "—and is breathing good air you and I might need later on in life." He finished her sentence with his own words.

"Precisely." She clearly shared his sentiments.

She uncrossed and re-crossed her legs—a 'tell' of hers, something she did when her mind was trying to suss out something she didn't understand. She leaned forward, puzzled. "Odd though, isn't it? It's not like he's some sort of mover-and-shaker that someone would pay to have killed."

Harry's thoughts had travelled along a similar path. He wrinkled his upper lip, then one side of his nose. "Haven't had a chance to look thought the surveillance logs just yet. But as soon as I do…"

It was an unspoken promise that he'd send her unredacted copies as soon as possible.

"I'll make sure Victoria drops off copies of all pertinent dossiers by noon tomorrow."

She would, too. Harry could count on Hermione to follow through with her promise to share information—well, actually, to follow through with any promise she made to him or Ron.

"Too bad Ron won't be back in time for this part of it. We could really use his help with this one." Hermione's pensiveness was genuine.

"Yeah, I know." Ron's unique take on political and physical strategy was often invaluable. "But he'll be on the team come Saturday."

Hermione pursed her lips. "I haven't decided who I'll be taking with me just yet. Certainly Natalie and Victoria will be assigned, but as for the others…"

Harry understood. He hadn't finalized his team either. "Count on Ron, and definitely Tracey Davis. As soon as I have the other names, I'll send them over."

"Likewise."

Her grimace was predicable. She didn't like it when something as important as a travelling dignitary's safety hung over her head. Harry and Ron were her 'muscle' but, ultimately, Arsuaga was her responsibility. He knew that until Gianni Portkeyed back to Florence, she was going to devote her considerable talents to foiling this assassination plot.

He draped his napkin back over his lap, and deliberately broke her introspection. "What's Arsuaga coming to town for?" Shacklebolt's briefing had included the 'what' of Arsuaga's visit—a three-day-two-night excursion that included meetings at the Ministry, 'personal shopping', and a night at a Muggle club—but not the 'why'.

"Trade agreement. He's offering British apothecaries, healers and hospitals exclusive purchasing rights for all of _Azienda Agricola della Famiglia de Arsuaga _crops. Providing, of course, that we can come to an… _amicable_… accord."

To which Hermione's participation would be key—talk about the antithesis of 'no pressure'. Harry whistled low and long. He didn't envy her. Her proverbial plate was full. Not only did she have to hold up her—significant—end of ensuring the man's security and jaunts, she also had to be at his beck-and-call from noon on Friday until Sunday afternoon, and sit in on the drafting sessions for the contract. "Unlucky you."

"Don't I know it!" She laughed darkly. "There's only one saving grace, Harry."

"Oh yeah—what's that?" He didn't think he wanted to know, given the mischievous look she shot at him.

"_You_ get the pleasure of working directly with his 'lovely' personal assistant, going over the finer details of his personal security."

Harry needed a bit of that chocolate cake to counter the sour taste that flooded his mouth at the thought of the meetings he'd be forced to have with that horrible woman. "You're _sure _she isn't related to Umbridge?"

"I'm sure. I looked it up."

"Course you did," Harry grumbled. It might be true, but Harry was utterly convinced that Gianni's assistant and the one-time Headmistress of Hogwarts shared a common ancestor somewhere. "She's such a bitch!"

Hermione knew better than to admonish him. "I shouldn't say this but, sweet Godric's gonads, I can't stand her either!"

They both laughed. It took a lot for Hermione to swear like _that_, especially about someone she had to 'play nice' with on such an important matter. "She's _worse_ than Umbridge, Harry," she said, authoritatively. "She makes Umbridge look like Molly's clone!"

All the talk of those two terrible women, Umbridge and Arsuaga's assistant, was foul enough to send both of their forks into the chocolate-covered chocolate cake, paring off big pieces.

Hermione hadn't even swallowed before she exclaimed how good it tasted. "Oh, Merlin, Harry—you're _right_! This _is _better than last time!"

Harry couldn't resist being a bit smug.

She purred as she licked every bit of cake from her fork. "Don't let me forget to order a piece to take home as well."

Bad memories of their Fifth year chased away by the power of delicious chocolate, Hermione tucked into her frittata once again. "Once we're done at the Ministry, it's back to the hotel for him until I pick him up at half-nine for a late dinner. Then it's onto Soho. At some point after that, we're to back-track to the hotel—hopefully I won't have to make nice with the concierge because Arsuaga missed his check-out time—where I'll give him his Portkey home."

Harry nodded. In the light of Arsuaga's previous trips, this one seemed par for the course—including his demand that Hermione be directly involved in every aspect of his visit.

He mentally mapped out the rest of his week as Hermione poured them more tea. They'd get together at least two more times to hammer out the remaining details.

Hermione's expression was contemplative, clearly doing the same thing as she stirred milk and drizzled honey into her cup. Right now, she needed Harry-the-best-friend, not Auror-in-Charge-Potter.

Harry's gaze lingered on the beautiful bands of leather that circled her wrists, the ones that dangled past the cuffs of her stylish cardigan. The bracelets matched the belt that circled her waist. The three pieces were the set of dampeners that she kept in her desk so that she'd always have them should the need arise. He signalled to the server, his own dampeners, one on each wrist and the third around his waist, revealed when the cuff of his sleeve slid back to the top of his wrist and his jumper lifted as he turned in his seat.

The dampeners allowed him and Hermione—any witch or wizard for that matter—to be in Muggleville—Ron's euphemism for anywhere that wasn't wizarding by nature—and not make every electrical or mechanical device in their vicinity go haywire. Dampeners stamped down, _dampened_, innate magical abilities. The more powerful the witch or wizard, the more dampeners she or he had to wear. Harry and Hermione each wore three. Ron had to wear two.

Dampeners, imbued with a complex combination of charms, runes and sigils, made it possible for Harry and Ron to own a telly, have access to the Internet, and party-hearty with the likes of Gianni de Arsuaga. Dampeners were the reason Hermione could drive her car and operate her laptop.

When the server came, Harry ordered a fresh pot of tea and another slice of cake.

Hermione was his—and he was hers—for the rest of the afternoon. He'd make sure that neither one of them would leave the café any time soon. They deserved—and needed—to spend this time together.

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><p><strong>Thursday 7 July 2005<strong>

**Just gone seven o'clock in the evening...**

Granted the Three Broomsticks wasn't the most original place for a clandestine meeting, but tonight—given who'd called for this little get-together—it suited Draco Malfoy's purposes perfectly.

He had travelled from his flat in Belgravia all the way to Scotland because HarryPotterwanted something from him.

That alone had justified Draco's arriving fifteen minutes early, securing one of the upstairs rooms—the one with a lounge separate from the bedroom—ordering a decanter of Ogden's Finest and two glasses, and putting everything on Potter's tab.

Now all he had to do was wait until Potter showed. There was, after all, something to be said for indulging one's Slytherin-ness.

When the knock came at the door, it was Madam Rosemerta, who announced Potter's arrival and ushered the Gryffindor into the room. After she left, a bit of wandless magic from Potter secured their privacy.

Draco was prepared. He didn't rise to greet the other man. He'd already selected his seat and poured himself a glass of Firewhisky, marking this previously established 'neutral territory' as _his_.

Potter took it all in without comment. If anything, his nonchalance undermined Draco's intentional posturing a little. But Draco wasn't insulted by the way Potter had decided to play out this part of their negotiations. Quite the contrary; Draco would've thought less of Potter if the Gryffindor had given any indication that he was even remotely intimidated.

For his part, Draco waved casually at the sideboard. "Drink?"

Potter shed his cloak and tugged his sleeves back into place as he considered Draco's offer. Then, neatly and efficiently, poured himself two fingers of the excellent liquor.

Draco waited—good manners dictated as much—for Potter to take a sip of his drink and settle into the only remaining chair. Business etiquette demanded that, since Potter had called this meeting, Potter should speak first.

Which he did, after a few measured moments. "Malfoy, thank you for coming."

Draco inclined his head and leaned back into the padding of his chair. "Your message was cryptic enough to pique my interest." The note that he'd received not two hours before had been as brief as it was vague—Draco was to provide the location of a neutral place where they could speak without being overheard, and Potter would meet him there with a proposition.

"Right." Potter took a moment to gather his thoughts, then seemed to settle for an 'honesty is the best policy' approach. "I'm here to ask you to do something no one else can do."

"Really now?" Potter's declaration was so melodramatic, Draco was almost amused.

"Yes—_really_." Potter reasserted himself.

Draco glanced at the sand-keeper mounted on the far wall, deciding that he'd give it five more minutes before he left to do other things with other people. "And Weaslebee isn't here, because...?" he prompted. The three of them—Potter, Weaslebee, and Granger—were a matched set. The Gruesome Threesome rarely travelled without at least one of the others in tow.

"Ron's on assignment and won't return until tomorrow," Potter explained. He sat back in his own chair, his drink in hand and Draco was suddenly on the receiving end of a very deliberate, _knowing_, look_._ "You _know_ why Hermione's not here."

A faint tremor of something indefinably disquieting thrummed for a moment beneath Draco's skin, but his meticulous control of his outward expressions ensured that Potter never saw it. "Then if you know 'know', it stands to reason that you also know why she's been avoiding me for the past three months." Draco drew on his drink. His not so subtle implication—that Potter should tell him why Granger had gone to extraordinary lengths not to be anywhere near him, even when they were in the same room at some DIWA event—hung in the air.

"I do." Potter took another swallow and, making sure he conveyed that he was, indeed, 'in the know' when it came to that particular witch, savoured the flavour of the aged whisky. "But that's not something I can share with you. What I can tell you, though, is that this," Potter gestured to the space between them, the reason for their meeting, "has to do with her—mostly."

Draco cocked an eyebrow. Sometimes he was convinced that Potter would've done well in Slytherin House. Other times, like now, he knew that Potter had indeed been sorted into the right House after all. Potter had revealed more than he'd intended.

A feeling of protective possessiveness crawled up from Draco's belly, slinked upwards, along his ribs, and settled behind his eyes. He didn't like how Potter had implied that Hermione could be in danger that was beyond the protection of her two best friends. "Isn't that what you and Weaselbee are for?"

"We are." Potter and the ginger git would step in front of an _Avada_ for Hermione—and she'd do the same for them—without a second thought. And yet, the man was admitting to the one loop-hole in their three-way pact: "Except when we can't."

Now _that _bit of disclosure was very interesting. So interesting, in fact, that Draco decided that he was going to stay for the duration—or until Potter said something utterly moronic. He suspected that Potter had entered their negotiations with an arsenal of 'right' things to say. Which meant that 'this', the purpose of their meeting, had _everything _to do with Granger.

He needed to know more and Potter was going to tell him. "That woman is more than capable of taking care of herself."

"She is," Potter instantly agreed, his absolute faith in his friend's skills and magical abilities evident. Until he pointed out another loophole: "Except when there are factors that neither of us," he included Draco in the 'us', "can account for, which as you know, changes the playing field considerably."

Draco was almost touched that Potter was alluding to the fact that he, Draco, had spent a considerable amount of time after the Battle of Hogwarts as a double-agent for the Order. There was nothing like smuggling letters detailing exactly who came to dinner in the days and months after Voldemort's fall to Dumbledore's barmy brother to earn a man his first down-payment on redemption. Draco was the unknown factor in Potter and Company's ultimate 'triumph' over the last lingering remnants of Voldemort's quest for supremacy.

Which meant that Potter needed… "You need a _spy_."

"Not exactly." Potter's smile was wicked. "No, Malfoy. We need you to be _you,_ and watch Hermione's back while you're gracing Gianni de Arsuaga with your presence."

That made Draco laugh out loud. Not because of the name that Potter dropped, but because of the expression he knew would cross Granger's face when she read his name as a de facto member of Potter's 'team'.

The way Potter stiffened only made him laugh longer. He enjoyed the hint of moisture that touched his lashes.

"Listen, Malfoy… You do this and you're going to have a front row seat when Hermione boxes my ears good and hard for going behind her back about this. I've spent hours dissecting the guest lists, the dossiers, and surveillance logs and yours is the only name that cropped up with any sense of regularity at events where both Hermione and Arsuaga, not necessarily at the same time mind you, were in attendance."

Sobering, Draco knew that Potter was leaving out several key details. The most pertinent being _why _Granger needed someone to watch her back. From what he knew of that pitiful excuse for a low-level aristocrat and wizard, there was no way Gianni de Arsuaga could pose any real threat to that witch.

"Be that as it may, Potter, _why are you here_?"

Potter sighed, and capitulated. Draco listened as Potter explained the assassination plot, how the man had demanded Hermione's direct involvement, how Draco was the only person with the means, connections, lineage and genuine cause to travel unobtrusively within Arsuaga's circle.

Potter also admitted, after a fortifying pull on his drink, that the idea of using a go-between, someone who could be seen without 'being seen', who could talk to both him and Hermione in public without arousing the faintest hint of suspicion, stemmed from a conversation he had earlier in the day, as the last of Arsuaga's security measures were finalized. Potter was professional enough to recognise a good idea when it was presented on a salver lined with common sense and justifiable caution.

By the end of Potter's confession, Draco's glass was empty and his decision made. Truth be told, he'd already decided to help with whatever Potter was going to propose the moment Potter made Granger a variable in the 'Will I or Won't I' equation.

That didn't mean that Draco was going to make it easy for Potter to 'persuade' him. Nor was he going to reveal the whole truth of the matter. Truth _was_ important. But in his experience, it was best doled out sparingly to acquaintances, and only freely shared with those who possessed one's absolute trust. Draco could count the number of people he really trusted on one hand. And no, Lucius's name didn't warrant a digit.

To his credit, as Draco let the silence stretch, Potter didn't fidget with his glass. And Draco, ever Slytherin, even if he was exceptionally well-mannered, let Potter stew for another moment more. "I take it this is to happen sometime soon?"

Potter nodded. "Arsuaga arrives tomorrow and leaves on Sunday. I have a copy of his itinerary with me." He set his glass down on the end table, propped an ankle on his knee and rested his open palms on the arm-rests of his chair. "What do you want?"

Draco had to commend Potter. The Gryffindor was actually trying to use his carefully vague agreement to claim an upper hand. He countered Potter's little by-play. "Who says I want something?"

Potter allowed himself to look amused. "You're _Malfoy_. You never do anything unless there's something in it for you."

"And you don't, Potter?" Draco called bollocks on the other man's thinly veiled self-righteousness. "For the last half-hour, you've been here, wanting _me _to do something for _you_, because you want—no, _need—_me to do it, because you _can't_."

Potter bristled, but only fractionally. Having the truth thrown back in one's face would do that to a person. "You're right." Then he repeated himself: "So tell me—what do you want?"

Draco didn't even have to think about what he wanted from Potter. He'd been waiting for a moment like this for two years. He wasn't going to let it go when it was within his reach. He was too much of a man, a Malfoy, and a Slytherin for that. "You know what I want." He didn't need to spell it out for the 'noble' Gryffindor.

"I'm not going play Cupid for you." Potter's refusal was direct and final.

Draco didn't let Potter's pompous presumptuousness derail him. "I don't need—_or want—_your help with _that_, Potter."

"Then what _do _you want, Malfoy?"

Draco looked at the other man through narrowed eyes. He didn't appreciate Potter's game-playing. "You're being deliberately obtuse. While that suits you, the behaviour is unbecoming. You _know_ what I want."

Potter shook his head back and forth several times. "Name something else."

"No."

"Anything, Malfoy. Anything that's within my power to grant."

Draco could be a patient man. But that little bit of the boy he used to be, couldn't. He wanted what he wanted, and by Salazar's hairy arse-cheeks, he was going to get it.

"Name your price, Malfoy, and we can call this meeting 'done'."

Draco's frustration peaked.

And the problem with it peaking was that, on either side of the apex, there were deep valleys exposed, laid bare, stripped of their protective layers. The question was this: did he let Potter leave the room without giving him the one thing he truly wanted?

No. He couldn't let that happen.

That didn't mean that he had to like the fact that he was about to break one of his cardinal rules about honesty and acquaintances.

"What I want is your _word_," he leaned forward, staring intently and intensely at Potter, "on your _magic_, on your _identity as a wizard_, and on the name of your precious Godric Gryffindor that _when the time comes_, there be no recriminations against Granger pertaining to whatever decision _she _decides upon pertaining to _me _and my intentions pertaining to _her_."

Draco's breathing had sped up considerably. He could feel the fabric of the chair giving under his manicured nails. It was a moment before he regained total control of his outward demeanour.

"Done." Potter, again to his credit, didn't blink. If anything, the man almost seemed to expect such an un-Slytherin-like declaration. "You have my word, on my magic, on my wizardness, on the name of Godric Gryffindor, and most importantly on my friendship and love for Hermione, that my relationship with her won't change _in the slightest_ if and when she makes a decision about her feelings for you."

Draco fought, and staved off, the urge to preen. He'd got more than he'd asked for from Potter. Her best friend had all but confirmed what Draco had believed all along. Now it was up to him to give Hermione Granger cause to consider his attentions and intentions.

"Done." Draco mimicked Potter's response. "I will play my part." He held out his hand.

As expected, Potter handed him a sealed packet that contained information about Arsuaga as well as the Italian's itinerary.

Potter nodded, satisfied with how everything had turned out and the accord they'd reached. They were each walking away with what they wanted.

Ever the considerate host and for no other reason, Draco motioned to the sideboard. "Freshen your glass before you go, Potter?"

Potter considered his invitation, then nodded. "I think I will, Malfoy."

They both stood. At the sideboard, Draco tipped a splash of Ogden's into Potter's glass and then tended to his own.

As they both sipped, the silence in the room was almost—_almost—_companionable.

It was Potter who broke the silence.

"You know, Malfoy, one of our," it was clear that Potter was speaking on behalf of himself, Weaslebee and Granger as it pertained to their interpersonal relationships, "biggest obstacles has been finding someone who won't get jealous of what we are to one another; someone who understands what kind of connection we have and truly accept our… reality. There aren't too many people in this world who can accept the fact that they will tie for first in all of our lives. Even fewer will be able to wrap their heads around the fact that we'll remain _that_ important to each other for the rest of our lives."

Draco could see the difficulty Potter had in not only articulating something so very complicated as well as sharing the particular truths he, Granger and Weaslebee weighed against every potential relationship.

"That's why I think you'll 'do', Malfoy. You've been there, with us – granted not always on the same side – since the beginning. You've forged a similar inter-connected relationship with Parkinson, Nott and Zabini, and yet you – like Hermione – haven't lost – nor are you likely to – lose you're individuality."

"Know this." Potter drew in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. The man clearly didn't want to be misunderstood in any way, shape, or form. "If you do anything to hurt her, beyond the normal ups and downs that comes with sharing your life with her and her sharing her life with you, everything you ever promised that would happened to every bloke who started something with Pansy, will fall on you three-fold. Ron and I, we're a given. Once she recovers from the shock, there's nothing Ron and I will be able to do to stop her from extracting whatever retribution she decides is her due. And, whatever's left of you after _that_, there'll be a string of others waiting to have a go at you. And, just so you know, just like if it were Pansy, none of us would have any problems living with whatever we did in her name."

Draco hadn't had nearly enough to drink to even begin to process, refute, or acknowledge everything Potter had just said. He knew the truth of it, though. If anyone, _e-v-e-r_, deliberately set out to hurt Pansy, and succeeded, Draco's conscience, pertaining to the level of retribution he, Blaise, and Theo would claim on her behalf, wouldn't cause him to lose any sleep either.

Instead, he did the last thing he figured Potter would expect him to do.

"Cheers."

He clinked their glasses. His way of assuring the other man that, on this matter, a Slytherin and a Gryffindor, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, were in perfect accord.


	2. Chapter 2

Hello All~

Yep - my facination with Draco and Hermione continues!

This time, the story stemmed from an invite to pinch-hit for the Dhficexchange over at LiveJournal... Lots of good stuff there, my friends. I SO recommend checking it out! Here's the link, minus the spaces: http : / dramione - duet . livejournal . com /

This time, our intrepid Harry Potter characters are 25 years old, and this story completely disregards The Epilogue - may it long lay in infamy. The chapters are going to be erratic in length, mostly due to the cadence of the story!

As always, I'd LOVE to read what you think!

YOU ALL ROCK!

Here were the stipulations:

Dominant! Draco

Strong! Hermione

Compliancy: Post-DH, Epilogue? What Epilogue!

Era: Post Hogwarts

Rating: R, or, NC-17

HEA/HFN for Dramione

Absolutely NO Ron or Harry bashing; they're best friends!

Some humor

Must contain the line: Men are from Mars, women are from Venus - where does that leave us?

* * *

><p>The Italian Job: Chapter 2<p>

* * *

><p>INTERDEPARTMENTAL MEMO<p>

_From: Auror-in-Charge H. J. Potter_

_To: H. J. Granger, Department of International Wizarding Affairs, Diplomatic Security Liaison_

_Date: Friday, 8 July 2005_

_Time: 8am_

_RE: Additional Safety Protocols for Florentine Delegate_

_Ms H. Granger,_

_Per a conversation with Head Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt, the services of an Auror-approved Freelancer have been secured to supplement the security and diplomatic details assigned to the aforementioned visitor. _

_Identity of said Freelancer is classified, only revealed on a need-to-know basis._

_Standard protocols, including proper counter-phrases will apply._

_Please be advised that additional accommodation will need to be secured for the Freelancer and said accommodation must be on the same floor of the same non-wizarding hotel._

_Please contact me if you have any questions or cannot fulfil any of the previously listed requirements._

_Thank you for your co-operation._

_H. J. Potter,_

_Special Auror-in-Charge_

The normal response to an all-too-formal and rather imperious memo was to craft an equally formal reply. On occasion—if stories told in the loo, at office parties, or traded at the water-cooler were to be believed—the affronted party might even go so far as to enclose the return memo in a Howler.

Hermione, however, never one for the limelight, didn't.

Every single woman within a five-floor radius of Harry's office offered to 'be the one' to help him heal his 'broken heart', that she'd be 'someone to listen to him', someone he could _just_… cry with, because, after all, he'd _just _been thoughtlessly chucked by someone he considered to be The One.

Ron hung about his office throughout the afternoon, just to bear witness to the steady flow of female empathizers.

Harry cradled his head in hands and rather she'd sent a Howler.

* * *

><p>Pressing the 'Review' button is a lovely way to finish a chapter - isn't it?<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

Hello All~

Yep - my fascination with Draco and Hermione continues!

This time, the story stemmed from an invite to pinch-hit for the Dhficexchange over at LiveJournal... Lots of good stuff there, my friends. I SO recommend checking it out! Here's the link, minus the spaces: http : / dramione - duet . livejournal . com /

This time, our intrepid Harry Potter characters are 25 years old, and this story completely disregards The Epilogue - may it long lay in infamy. The chapters are going to be erratic in length, mostly due to the cadence of the story!

As always, I'd LOVE to read what you think!

YOU ALL ROCK!

Here were the stipulations:

Dominant! Draco

Strong! Hermione

Compliancy: Post-DH, Epilogue? What Epilogue!

Era: Post Hogwarts

Rating: R, or, NC-17

HEA/HFN for Dramione

Some humor

Absolutely NO Ron or Harry bashing; they're best friends!

Must contain the line: Men are from Mars, women are from Venus - where does that leave us?

* * *

><p><strong>The Italian Job: Chapter 3<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Saturday, 9 July 2005<strong>

**Half-gone eleven at night…**

The stretch limousine that her department had hired for the evening was luxurious, opulent, and smooth. Her companions couldn't lay claim to any of those traits.

_Okay – relax, Hermione_, she told herself. Thankfully, she'd long-perfected the art of keeping her inner thoughts from influencing her countenance and body language.

It was far too early in the evening for her to feel this riled up about Arsuaga's hedonism, his assistant's ridiculously smug priggishness, and the chemically heightened state of the three scantily clad Muggles—two men and a woman, none of whom were more than twenty years old, and who were all far too pretty for their own good.

_Scantily clad… Who am I to judge_! Hermione mentally rolled her eyes at her own hypocrisy. Her outfit left just as little to anyone's imagination as those of the people riding with her, with the exception of Gianni and his assistant. The man's perfectly tailored, though slightly tacky, slacks, shirt and blazer almost made him look overdressed. But that distinction was owned by Senora Anna Lucia Bianchi. The woman looked like she'd raided a grieving Italian grandmother's wardrobe, had chosen the most sombre pieces, and was wearing them with all the dignity of an Oxford don.

_Just a few more hours, Hermione. Just a few more hours, Hermione_. That was her mantra. That dogged mindset got her through the Voldemort years, and through N.E.W.T.s, her crushing course-load at Cambridge, and it was going to get her through tonight. She'd sleep until noon tomorrow, then meet with the goblins to validate the contract Arsuaga just signed, come home to lounge about trying not to think about _him_, and on Monday avert the next international incident with a properly planned and executed cocktail party, glamorous ball, sumptuous garden party or glittering soirée, at a ridiculously posh and hopelessly exclusive venue, somewhere in the wizarding world.

That thought made her mentally smile, and for the reasons that Harry had listed when they'd had brunch on Tuesday. She was genuinely looking forward to putting this weekend behind her and getting back to the predictably unpredictability that made her career at DIWA so fulfilling.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Muggles whispering amongst themselves. One of the men leaned even closer to Arsuaga, and cupped his hand to the Italian's ear. All three of the men swung their gaze to her.

So focused was she on wondering what it was the men were planning at her expense, she didn't see the girl move until a pair of pillowy lips were softly pressed against hers. For a fraction of an instant, she actually responded to the gentle, coaxing, kiss—who hadn't experimented with a member of the same sex at sometime during their formative years?

She shot a disapproving look at the 'mastermind' of her Sapphic encounter, certain that the girl's Muggle friend had put her up to it. Not that she wasn't flattered—she was. The girl clearly specialized in seduction, not assault. Which was why she let her down without a reprimand. "Thanks—but no thanks."

Hermione was glad the girl didn't take her rejection personally and settled for a simple, "It was nice while it lasted."

Arsuaga guffawed loudly; his assistant tittered behind the hand she held to her mouth. The Muggle men set about distracting their friend with inappropriate pets and caresses to every inch of skin, exposed and clothed.

Hermione called up her mantra, and silently chanted.

Thankfully it wasn't long before the driver buzzed to tell them that they were sixty-seconds from the front entrance of Constellations.

The car rolled to a stop.

Hermione's door was opened first, in accordance with her diplomatic and security-centric position. She gratefully accepted the chauffeur's hand and, with his help, climbed gracefully out of the limo. Had she attempted it on her own, she would have run the risk of losing her balance on her four-inch stiletto heels and falling flat on the red carpet. And after that little interlude in the limo, the last thing she needed was to sprawl upon the ground at Arsuaga's feet.

Arsuaga emerged next, then his assistant, and then his 'friends'.

Thankfully, Arsuaga's arrival barely caused a stir among the throng of paparazzi that crowded the velvet ropes separating the club's private property from the rest of London. His status among ever growing lists of Muggle 'celebutants' wasn't high enough to provoke a feeding-frenzy among the photo-whores.

Hermione ushered her charges up the carpeted walkway, away from prying eyes and into more secure surroundings.

At the front door, Hans—according to his name tag—met them, latched disposable bracelets onto their wrists, and led them past the long line of revellers awaiting entrance to the London's hottest night spot.

The bouncer at the inner entryway was big, buff, and scowled in the most intimidating manner—_Don't blame me for what I'm wearing, blame Arsuaga!_

Ron Weasley was playing his part to the hilt, right down to hooded look of disapproval he gave to every inch of Hermione's exposed and barely clothed body.

She, though, heartily appreciated his 'uniform'—the dark blue t-shirt was at least a size too small for his large frame; the word 'Security' stretched tautly across his chest and the snug material emphasized the muscles of his back and shoulders, and outlined his tapered waist. Tight, dark Muggle jeans and thick-soled trendy boots completed his look. His longish hair was pulled back sexily with a leather thong. Only another witch or wizard would know that his hair tie and the belt threaded through the loops of his jeans were his dampeners. It was clear that life as an Auror, weekend pick-up Quidditch games, and regular duelling practice did his body good.

Ron was Hermione and Harry's first line of defence and their best offence, should anything go sideways. There was no one else Hermione would want in such a pivotal position.

Still following Hans, the group skirted the dance floor en route to the private lift, where Seamus Finnigan and Anthony Goldstein stood chatting. Both were dampened and dressed to impress.

With nary a nod to either member of Harry's team, Hermione was the last to enter the lift when it arrived. Finnigan and Goldstein would have been offended if she'd shown them even the slightest hint of acknowledgement—beyond that of a woman sizing up their respective shaggability quotients. If they hadn't been working, neither of those wizards would be going home alone.

The lift chimed their arrival at the second floor. Hermione strode out beside Arsuaga, just behind Hans. There were other people watching their collective backs.

Tracey Davis's elegant figure attracted exactly the kind of attention Hermione and Harry's team required. The woman fell on the Ravenclaw side of the Slytherin House spectrum—she was smart, cagey, and incredibly accurate with a wand. Hermione remembered all the times she had prodded Harry to recruit the woman. And now Harry thanked her for that. He knew he was lucky to have Davis on his team. Which was why he didn't grumble _too _loudly when Hermione filed the occasional request to 'borrow' Davis for various events and functions. Aside from her obvious talents as an Auror, she and Davis were good friends and genuinely enjoyed each other's company. They were also each other's 'go-to' date for events when one or the other was working said event; both of them got to play 'dress up' and both of them could work or enjoy themselves without the hassle of juggling a male ego. And she was fun to shop with. It was Davis who'd helped her find the outfit she was wearing tonight.

On the dance floor, Victoria Frobisher and Natalie McDonald bumped and swayed. The two women weren't pretty in the traditional sense but they certainly set the bar high with their eroticism and sensuality. The pair had the best romantic relationship of anyone Hermione called friend and team mate; their Bonding ceremony was set for the following month. They were also the best 'eyes' of anyone on her or Harry's teams. Which was why they were stationed on the dance floor and not at any other detection point.

Hans cleaved a path from the lift, across the dance floor, and past the bar. The VIP Lounge, also known as The Observatory, was just steps away. It was hard to hear what he was trying to tell her and Gianni over the thumping, throbbing, bass, which was why Hermione asked him to repeat it: "What did you just say?"

The man was still in motion as he waved Arsuaga and his entourage past the two sentry-like bouncers that flanked the stairwell leading to the Observatory. Hermione didn't like having to wait for an answer to such a simple question. Hans waited until they were inside the narrow corridor that connected the Observatory to the dance floor. "I said: Signor Arsuaga's guests have already arrived. You can be assured that they've been afforded every courtesy—"

But anything he said after the word 'they've' wasn't relevant. Not when 'they've' included the likes of Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini.

The urge to point the toes of her stilettos in the opposite direction was strong. Hermione forced herself to keep pace with Hans, relying on her ability to compartmentalize now that she was trapped with the two people she least wanted to be with: Arsuaga and Malfoy.

Though, she had to admit… Whether Draco Malfoy wore a suit, formal robes, casual robes, was nearly naked, completely naked, or decked out scrumptiously in club-wear, the man was a sight to behold. His outfit made the term 'shaggable' a ridiculous understatement.

Tailored leather trousers hung low on his lean hips. The drape of his midnight-blue silk shirt showcased his strong arms, the shape of his shoulders, chest and muscular abdomen. Perfectly mussed white-blond hair, hand-crafted boots, and delicately balanced, all-too-masculine cologne polished his look to perfection. Even his dampeners that were attached to his hands trousers added to his sex appeal. Wide leather bands laced to his wrists drew the eye to his well-corded forearms. The coordinating leather belt that spanned his trim waist pointed to his other, more _southern_, attributes.

Attributes Hermione had had the privilege of examining first hand, along with other body parts…

And Blaise was no consolation prize should Draco deem himself unavailable. The dark-skinned man cut a similar, please-shag-me-into-the-mattress, figure. His well-muscled physique was shown off by a sleeveless waistcoat and custom-sewn linen slacks. Like Draco, he wore his dampeners around his wrists. His belt was just that—an expensive, sexy accessory. Hermione couldn't help thinking that whomever he next tied to his bedpost should be bound by that belt.

Hans' words about a personal server assigned to them for their exclusive use, complimentary hors d'oeuvres, how to use the House phone should there be anything further he could do to ensure their enjoyment, and some comments about other services Arsuaga had requested of the establishment brought her out of her sexual stupor.

"Yes—thank you." She nodded, as if her attention had never wandered to the impossibly handsome men lounging so nonchalantly against the railing of the balcony. She made eye contact with Hans and held it. "If we need anything, we'll let you know."

Hermione's dismissal bordered on curt, but it was for his own good. Based on Arsuaga's behaviour in the limo, it wouldn't surprise her if the Florentine did something she'd have to deal with later. The fewer the incidents she had to clean up, the better.

Thankfully, Gianni was blissfully distracted by his three Muggle playmates, other assorted invitees, the numerous bottles of uncorked champagne immersed in silver ice buckets, and the fact that _the_ Draco Malfoy and_ the _Blaise Zabini had decided join them for the night's pleasure and frivolity.

Arsuaga called for everyone's attention.

"_Prossimo_! We must drink! And drink is best when it is poured by a friend—no?" Arsuaga insisted animatedly.

He beckoned to LimoGirl to bring a bottle of champagne. She sauntered over to him, and placed the neck of the bottle into his waiting hand. Arsuaga tilted her head back and told her to open her mouth. She obliged. He dribbled a bit of bubbly into the well of her mouth. The girl made a show out of swallowing.

"See! We are now friends!" Gianni decreed with a cheer. He passed the bottle back to the girl and indicated that she was to do what he had done with the person of her choosing.

The bottle was passed among Gianni's guests. One after another accepted and gave mouthfuls of the chilled bubbly.

Hermione strode to the balcony, away from the party that was becoming rowdier by the moment. She didn't have to be close to Arsuaga, she did have to keep him in her sights. With any luck, it'd be a while before it would be her turn.

Pleased that his game was such a success, Arsuaga snapped his fingers at the server Constellations had assigned to them and ordered shots of tequila, vodka, and whiskey – one of each for all his friends.

It wasn't a waitress that brought the laden trays. It was a troupe of House dancing girls sporting tiny, bejewelled, bikini tops with the club's logo spelled out on the minuscule matching bottoms. Their arrival was met with whoops of delight from the chemically altered and the sexually charged.

She was on duty, but she allowed herself to enjoy the place. The talented deejay kept the dance floor full and clubbers thirsty. The drinks were good, not watered down. The place was clean and trendy. They'd been there nearly an hour and Arsuaga hadn't complained about anything. Her glass was never empty nor did she have to repeat her drink order. The staff clearly knew how to deliver customer service. Constellations deserved its reputation.

The sight of LimoGirl placing a hand on Malfoy, and of him easily charming her, sent Hermione's drink to her lips. The lime in her tonic water tasted exceptionally bitter as she watched Malfoy listen raptly to whatever it was that the girl cooed in his ear.

Hermione couldn't decide what she liked least: that LimoGirl's skills at seduction bordered on being an honest-to-goodness super-power, that the same could be said about Malfoy, or that Malfoy now seemed to know about her uninvited-but-not-unpleasant Sapphic moment.

She watched as Blaise, the latest recipient of that blasted 'pass it around' champagne bottle, sauntered over to the chit and gave her a drink she clearly didn't need. She promptly 'passed' it along to Malfoy.

The way Malfoy opened his mouth to accept his mouthful of bubbly set her teeth grinding and her legs in motion. With a glance to the perimeter—never forgetting where they were, what she was supposed to be, or the fact that she was responsible for Gianni de Arsuaga's sorry arse until his feet once again touched Florentine soil—she made for the railing of the balcony.

Awareness to her surroundings made her curl her fingers around the burnished metal of the guard rail and flex the muscles in her hand until her knuckles whitened.

She was being stalked.

The cold caress of a chilled champagne bottle on her nearly naked back was impossible to ignore. "I believe that you're the only one who's yet to partake, Granger."

There should be some sort of regulation—for the protection of knickers, and sensibilities of those wearing said knickers—applied to Draco Malfoy's drawl. "And here I was, under the impression that I was the only one who _had_, Malfoy. _Partaken_, that is."

Her reference to the fact that she was the only person in the Observatory who'd slept with, licked, and sucked him, wasn't lost on Malfoy. Not in the slightest, as his demeanour became even more… predatory.

Hermione really disliked the fact that her tact-filter didn't engage whenever Malfoy was within a three-foot radius. She couldn't risk Gianni's discovering that she'd insulted one of his guests, which meant that when Draco latched a warm, dry, hand on her arm and turned her towards him, she didn't fight him.

The belled bottom of the bottle slid up over her elbow and skimmed the fine leather cuff that circled her upper arm.

"Nice dampeners, Granger." His appreciation for the workmanship and aesthetics was genuine as his eyes took in each armband and the daintier but equally powerful choker that rested snugly at the base of her throat. "In fact, the whole ensemble is quite..." His gaze roamed over the narrow criss-cross of patent-finished fabric that rose from each hip, corralled her breasts, and tied halter-style at the back of her neck. The bodice, what little there was, was further secured by strings knotted at her back. Her legs were completely covered, but the way the fabric draped over every curve and swell of her hips, arse, thighs and calves, she could just as well have been naked. "Fetching."

"You should've seen the look of disapproval on Ron's face." She wasn't above using her other best friend to deflect Draco's smouldering look or to remind her why she'd been doing everything in her power to avoid being in such close proximity to him.

"That wasn't disapproval, Princess." Draco corrected her, eyes hooded with amusement at what he perceived to be proof that she had held onto some of her girlhood naivety. "What you saw was a sworn protector resign himself to the fact that at some point he's going to have to put himself between your pursuer and your… _honour_."

He gave her another, even more evaluating, once-over. Whatever he saw, it seemed to make his mind up about something. "Truth be told, Granger? I've never seen you look more delectable than when you're wearing nothing but our sweat and that post-coital grin of yours."

The honest sincerity and the extent of the unfettered longing he allowed her to see was the only reason why she didn't slap him for saying something that, from a lesser man and one with whom she didn't share a unique history, would've been crude, rude, demeaning, and ultimately unforgivable.

Noise from behind them broke the moment. Two of the bikini-clad dancers were on a tabletop, doing their best to dry-hump each other to orgasm, as Arsuaga and the rest of his entourage enthusiastically whistled, cheered, and cat-called.

"What is it about guys watching two girls go at it?" she muttered exasperatedly. She understood why the girls, specifically the ones on the tabletop, were doing it—she'd never judge them for how they made their living and paid their bills. But the salivating that their…exuberance… caused the guys?

Draco chuckled softly. "Oh, Granger… I can't tell you the answer to that one."

She sniffed equally at the scene and at the fact that he'd, once again, slipped through her emotional defences. "You make it seem like it's some secret blokes are sworn to keep when they get their first hard-on."

Draco seemed to approve of her crassness. "How'd you know?"

She matched his chortle, and then gave into her mirth. "You know… Brightest witch of her age."

"There's that." Draco nodded, clearly alluding to talents other than magic. He brandished the champagne bottle, bringing them back from the brink. "Still your turn, Granger. Open up."

She needed to regain some of her lost footing. Draco—definitely Draco, not Malfoy—had been dominating the conversation from the start.

But she needed to walk away after they were done knowing he was just as affected by her as she was by him. That was why she'd been working so hard to avoid him. One more encounter like they'd had last time and that mutual ground she so desperately needed had the potential to slide—metaphorically and physically—to his side of the bed.

"Don't you remember, Malfoy? I already have."

The sharp inhalation, the clenched muscle along his lower jaw, and the whitening of his knuckles as he tightened his hold on the champagne bottle, was the validation she sought. She opened her mouth, and waited.

Bubbly liquid flowed. She swallowed without a sputter and licked away any lingering droplets.

His response was immediate. He dipped his head very close to hers. They breathed in each other's air and their exhaled breaths mingled in the meagre spaced between their noses. "I've got a message for you, Granger."

She made some sort of sound that not even she fully understood.

"Men are from Mars, women are from Venus."

"So where does that leave us?"

Her rejoinder was automatic, a response she'd conditioned herself say whenever someone uttered the first half of the recognition-code.

The sudden realisation that the phrase-and-counter-phrase of a DIWA/Auror security protocol was the perfect euphemism for their unique interpersonal situation slammed into both of them. He was so close to her there was no way she could miss his reaction, regardless at how talented he was at masking his emotions.

She allowed herself the span of five heartbeats to catalogue Malfoy's proximity, body heat, cologne, and innate maleness.

Identifying him by his surname flipped her proverbial switch from behaving as a storybook, self-assured woman to _being _a strong, self-assured, female professional responsible for the lives of those under her protection and supervision.

Malfoy now stood under both of her over-lapping professional umbrellas. She mentally and physically withdrew from him.

He, though, didn't. If he had, it wouldn't match the part Harry had, somehow, ensured he'd play. He stayed close, taut, and fully invested. To any onlookers, their stance suggested that he had come on to her, she had turned him down, and he was trying to persuade her otherwise.

Hermione had no doubt that Malfoy had orchestrated their whole encounter to create such an illusion but she knew better than to second-guess what had actually happened between the two of them over the course of the past twenty minutes.

"_Splendido_! _Brava_!" Gianni's Italian accent, more pronounced now that he'd had a few drinks, flowed over Malfoy's left shoulder. The man's eyes fixed on the bottle in Malfoy's hand, his anticipation evident. He wanted Hermione to react to him as she had to Malfoy. "We will become friends now—no?"

Her hands were in motion as she did the one thing she could to prevent herself from becoming Gianni's 'friend'.

Malfoy released the bottle the moment her fingers wrapped around the slender neck of glass. He angled his mouth so that when she tipped the bottom, not a drop spilled anywhere but between his teeth and over his tongue. His eyes stayed on her, and her eyes stayed on the last inch of champagne that he far-from-discreetly drained.

Done, Malfoy licked his lips, more for effect than out of necessity.

Hermione passed the bottle back to Gianni, and wrapped her self in well-polished aloofness. "Empty, I'm afraid."

The man's expression darkened, clearly offended. Then, suddenly, cleared; the affront had been dismissed. Which was odd, because she'd seen him take offence at more innocently-committed acts of disrespect.

"Bah—no matter!" He made to sling an arm around Malfoy's shoulder, a move which Malfoy deftly dodged. Unfazed, Gianni continued as if he and Malfoy were the best of friends and the staunchest of allies. He drew the other man's attention to Hermione. "Ah, my friend… Do you think that anyone could ever tame such a pretty kitty?"

Hermione valued the contract tucked away in her beaded bag more than she needed to correct his machismo attitude, or address the sexist, piggish insult delivered in the smooth Italian accent.

"I prefer full-grown lionesses to kittens, Arsuaga. Even if it takes years—to watch a lioness come into her own, hunt her prey, protect her pride, claim her territory, accept a mate, and guard her young – the wait is worth while."

She definitely needed to craft a charm to insulate her libido and psyche from Draco Malfoy's drawl and his clever application of euphemisms.

"Be that as it may, Signor Malfoy, my pretty little liaison would be just as recognisable without her claws and fangs – yes?"

Gianni's back-handed 'compliment' was something Hermione expected. The sting of disappointment she felt at Malfoy's enigmatic silence wasn't. It would be too much to hope for Malfoy to defend her a second time. Looking at the entire exchange from a professional perspective, he shouldn't have said what he'd said in the first place. That didn't mean that she didn't have to lock away her hurt feelings in a box tagged, 'What Does it Matter Anyway?'

Too bad the box was mislabelled.

She pretended that she hadn't heard a word they'd said, and didn't say, and sipped at her drink with elegant detachment.

Arsuaga barked out another laugh, this one loud enough to draw the attention of his entourage. He clapped his hands to get his assistant's attention and, following a silent exchange of subtle hand gestures, Signora Bianchi herded everyone to his side.

"As I was saying… Now that we are all friends, we must dance! There is much to celebrate!" He swung an arm at the crowded dance floor, the Pied Piper to the town's children. "Let us descend from our Ivory Tower!"

_That's not part of the plan, Arsuaga!_

Hermione didn't bother to look at Zabini or Malfoy to help her with this. Her job was to protect Arsuaga and she couldn't do that if he didn't abide by the plans already put in place. She pulled Arsuaga off to the side and spoke very deliberately.

"That's not a good idea. We're not set up for that."

She hadn't signed off on all his requests just to have him suddenly disregard all the hard work done by her people to ensure his personal safety.

"This is a celebration!" His entourage fed off his enthusiasm voraciously. "What is there to worry about? No one knows we are here. The night beckons to my blood! Dance, I must! Who is to say that any one of us will live to see the dawn?" A resounding chorus of agreement erupted. Hermione was the recipient of some very pointed manipulation: "I will take… _il più sgradevole_, personal offence… if you do not celebrate, with me, the most favourable contract you negotiated, of which I signed earlier today as the legal emissary of _Azienda Agricola della Famiglia de Arsuaga_."

His deliberate wording, regardless of his playful tone and celebratory mood, backed her into a diplomatic corner.

Nodding, she conceded. She had to. His warning and very vague threat was all too real.

"_Eccellente_! _Fantasico_! I promise, you will not forget this night nor the name Gianni de Arsuaga!"

His excitement made her wary. But there was nothing more she could do, except follow the exodus from the relative safety of the Observatory to the melee of the dance floor.

* * *

><p>That little button, just below where you're reading - the 'Review' button? It's a lovely way to end a chapter!<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

Hello All~

Yep - my facination with Draco and Hermione continues!

This time, the story stemmed from an invite to pinch-hit for the Dhficexchange over at LiveJournal... Lots of good stuff there, my friends. I SO recommend checking it out! Here's the link, minus the spaces: http : / dramione - duet . livejournal . com /

This time, our intrepid Harry Potter characters are 25 years old, and this story completely disregards The Epilogue - may it long lay in infamy. The chapters are going to be erratic in length, mostly due to the cadence of the story!

As always, I'd LOVE to read what you think!

YOU ALL ROCK!

Here were the stipulations:

Dominant! Draco

Strong! Hermione

Compliancy: Post-DH, Epilogue? What Epilogue!

Era: Post Hogwarts

Rating: R, or, NC-17

HEA/HFN for Dramione

Absolutely NO Ron or Harry bashing; they're best friends!

Must contain the line: Men are from Mars, women are from Venus - where does that leave us?

* * *

><p><strong>The Italian Job: Chapter 4<strong>

* * *

><p>The soles of Hermione's shoes skidded and dragged on the occasional sticky spot that dotted the dance floor. Thankfully, mostly due to the fact that Malfoy and Zabini routinely claimed the area around her as theirs, no one crashed into her and she was able to keep her eyes on Arsuaga at all times.<p>

She still didn't like the fact that the man was so exposed. She couldn't see Victoria or Natalie because of the crush, but she knew they wouldn't be far away. Harry was here, somewhere near enough to be on-hand if needed, but otherwise invisible. She'd bet a week's worth of home-cooked dinners that he was doing his all-but-patented pervy-lone-wolf thing to keep the interested at bay, but still look the part so as to not to draw unnecessary attention to himself. Tracey was also somewhere close. Hermione couldn't help but think that Davis would totally rock Zabini's world if the two of them were to have a one-off.

No matter how talented her people were, there just weren't enough of them to cover all the new contingencies that stemmed from Arsuaga's latest demand.

She was hardly moving, but the way Draco kept touching her, his hands skimming her arms, sides, hips and back, insinuating a leg between hers, made her heart beat in a way that had nothing to do with her level of exertion. She reached for him, one hand on the tense muscle of his right shoulder, her other hand bracketing his left hip. Her non-too-gentle insistence drew him close, so close that the silk of his shirt fluttered against the thin film of dampness that covered her exposed skin. Being so close meant that they slowed down, moving more sensuously than before. Somewhere, she was aware that Zabini had stepped back to give them some semblance of privacy.

Her hand at Draco's hip rose and tangled itself in his mussed hair. She stretched upwards until she could rub her cheek against his. He helped by fanning a large hand against the curve of her back, holding her steady and yet loosely enough so that they could continue to sway to the music.

"Find Harry."

She felt him stiffen at her words, but he didn't break character or their rhythm.

"Tell him: the pitch needs more players."

His only answer was to pull her even closer to him. Their bodies were now pressed together from chest to thigh. He tilted his pelvis deliberately once, twice, thrice; her breath hitched and her fingers found purchase on the bunched muscles of his arm and on the solid wall of his abdomen.

Malfoy leaned back. His hands snaked upwards.

Hermione stopped him before he could undo the clasp of her choker. Oh yes, she knew what he wanted. But he needed to understand that the risk of her being discovered was greater than the physical risk to her person. Relocating his hands to her hips and tracing the leather bands that encircled his wrists told him what she didn't have to say: the dampeners stay on.

He didn't like it—he had to abide by her decision, but he definitely didn't like doing so.

Summoned by a look Draco cast over her head, Zabini stepped back into her personal space. Talk about being forced to accept something she didn't like. Malfoy knew exactly how to give her a taste of her own medicine. If he couldn't protect her himself, Zabini was the next best alternative.

He let go of her when the song ended, miming, purely for effect, that he was going to the bar to buy them a round of drinks.

The next song rolled through the crowd. Drawn by the call of provocative lyrics and primal rhythms, dancers flooded onto the dance floor.

Within seconds, Hermione couldn't see Draco or Arsuaga.

* * *

><p>One minute the queue for the bar was ten-people deep, and as the next song hit the airwaves, the number of thirsty clubbers was cut by half. Draco lost sight of Hermione almost immediately. He couldn't see Blaise either. He didn't like it. He didn't like that fact that she refused to remove her dampeners and he didn't like the way Arsuaga treated her. The woman could hold her own, no question. He hadn't been paying her lip-service when he'd told Potter what she was capable of protecting herself. But there was just something… <em>off<em>… about his new Florentine 'friend' and that nasty bint of an assistant.

He had no intention of actually heading back out onto the floor with any drinks. He was there to deliver Hermione's message to Potter, and that was it. The sooner he did, the sooner he could get back to her. But seeing as how there were only three bartenders on duty and he was nearly last in line, he allowed his thoughts to roam—especially his thoughts about _her_.

This was the fifth time in seven memorable encounters that he'd been able to touch the woman, and he was going to take full advantage of his time with her—despite being forced to share her with DIWA, a handful of Aurors, Arsuaga and his ridiculous friends, and all the Muggles in this blasted club.

He hadn't always been so… magnanimous.

Pansy had phrased it best, and Theo and Blaise had seconded her when, one night, as the four of them sat in Nott's country house, passing around a bottle of Ogden's Gold Standard, and talked about the past, the present and their collective futures.

She said that the boy he was forced to be had, despite _everything_, become the man he was always meant to be, and that it took a megalomaniac to facilitate that level of personal evolution.

He had to admit that she was right. Especially when Theo ticked off the number of changes he saw in Draco, along with the inherent traits that were part of his personality.

Yes, he had daddy-issues. And yes, he had an 'I'll-bite-you-first-if-I-think-you're-going-to-bite-me-harder' sense of personal and professional preservation. But Draco, in his friends' eyes and to himself, wasn't the cowardly, spiteful, immature wizard who'd bullied those he perceived to be below him. He'd found purpose in managing the family's extensive accounts and pursuing ways of elevating the Malfoy and Black names beyond any Dark connotations. He'd been conditioned since birth with the doctrine that loyalty to family was a pillar of personal strength, but he _learned_ that family wasn't defined by blood. Theo, Blaise and Pansy were his brothers and sister in a way that transcended sibling-hood. Potter had, indeed, been correct when he'd said that what he, Granger and Weaslebee paralleled Draco's relationships with the three—hopefully, soon to be four—most important people in his life. Their interconnections were as easy to see as they were impossible to put into words.

Granger was the first person outside of his protective circle to recognize his personal evolution.

Two years ago, Narcissa had asked him to escort her to the gala that followed the opening performance of the Romanian Wizarding Ballet Company.

The emotional tension conveyed by nearly three hours of movement and music was rivalled by the sexual tension that thrummed between him and Granger as they gravitated towards one another during the formal reception that followed. That's when he'd learned what she did, an interesting position that suited her skills and potential perfectly. She'd even gone so far as to admit that ever since their 'eighth year', she'd paid attention whenever anyone she knew, or didn't know, had mentioned his name.

He'd been surprised to learn that she'd spent three years after they'd graduated from Hogwarts—yes, he knew the importance of sitting for his N.E.W.T.s—with only half a foot in the wizarding world while she'd acquired a combined degree in Political Science and International Relations from Cambridge University, _sigma cum laude, thank you very much_.

In a room full of potential business contacts, social vultures, general acquaintances, political rivals, and fair-weather allies, he'd found himself fully engaged by her. That night, as he'd stared into the all-but-spent fire in the hearth of his study, he'd come to the same conclusion about Hermione Granger that his friends had drawn about him.

Granger had grown into the kind of witch and woman she was meant to be, despite the fact that her girlhood had been sacrificed on the same Altar of Darkness that reduced his innocence to ashes.

She was still bookish, and had that arrogance to which a learned academic was actually entitled to carry. But she was refined, and confident, with a wry wit that showed her cleverness, and her genuine compassion was curbed by the fact that she understood—as much as any of them could given their ages and life-experiences—how both the Muggle and Wizarding worlds really worked. She epitomized of the lioness he had professed her to be.

She wasn't perfect. Far from it. She was aggressive, assertive, and stubborn. Among those in her chosen field, she _was_ the alpha-female. She had no trouble making decisions for others when she believed she knew what was better for them then they did, and could, when the mood suited her, be condescending to those who didn't meet the standards she set for them. Yet, interestingly enough, she abhorred the spotlight.

The next time they'd met, a month later, had been at a charity function hosted on behalf of St. Mungos by the Brotherhood of Magical Creatures. He'd warranted an invitation due to the size of the Malfoy family vaults. She was there in an official capacity, as there were many visiting dignitaries. All it took for him to be buried to the hilt inside her, against the wall of some Healer's tastefully decorated office, was an hour's worth of fleeting eye contact and unspoken agreements. It was fast, furious, and fantastic. He fucked her as hard as she fucked him. Twenty minutes of sexual bliss from beginning to end.

The third time, she'd found him at the closing ceremony of the Cedric Diggory Commemorative Tournament. They'd stalked each other during the three day event. He'd ended up being her prey. He left Cardiff with undeniable proof that Granger's oral skills were exceptional.

So, naturally, during a Quidditch match between Puddlemere United and the Chudley Cannons that autumn, he'd returned the favour. The way she'd come apart under his expert and prolonged application of tongue, teeth, fingers and hand had brought him to a climax just as powerfully.

Augusta Longbottom's seventy-fifth birthday extravaganza had been a smashing success. As guests from all over the wizarding world toasted to Augusta's longevity and continued health, he and Hermione—definitely Hermione at that point—had spent an hour doing things the memory of which still made him hard. It was during that encounter they'd kissed for the first time.

Before, they'd each made overtures, but had held back. Not that time. Their lips had all but fused the second the door to some obscure corner of the main house had been kicked shut. Once they'd started, neither one of them had stopped. They'd rolled, groped, caressed, fondled, gripped, and plundered each other's bodies with tangled tongues and sweet, sweet, suction.

The sixth time he'd seen her, they'd been at the British Wizarding Embassy in Vienna during Carnivale. She'd successfully avoided getting any where near him. Several times he'd tried to finagle one of her stupor-inducing kisses or even a simple brushing of fingers. The physical contact was going to be his inroad to demanding to know why, after they'd thoroughly shagged each other senseless, she'd bunched her elegant dress around her strappy sandals and had Apparated away wearing nothing but an enigmatic look and his scent. He'd left the party wearing a scowl and more questions than he had answers.

The slightly disconcerting discovery was that a lot of the answers he sought lay with him and the true state of his feelings for Gryffindor's de facto princess.

"What can I get ya?"

_Perfect_ _timing_.

Draco scanned the labels that towered behind the bartender. He needed something that would indicate to Potter that it definitely came from him. It took a moment, but he finally found a brand he recognized that would be suitable. "Remy Martin, two fingers, neat."

The bartender didn't blink as he moved to fill Draco's order. Nor did he question Draco when Draco asked to use the man's biro.

Draco reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of Muggle money. He peeled off a couple of the pieces of the colourful paper and laid it on the bar top. He jutted his chin in the direction of a dark-haired twenty-something man who drank alone. "See that guy over there?"

"Yeah."

Draco couldn't scribble if his life depended on it. His handwriting was neat and elegant as he spelled out Granger's message on the napkin on which the bartender had set his drink.

"I want this," he made sure the bartender knew that the napkin and snifter of liquor were a matched set, "delivered to that guy over there."

The bartender didn't move until Draco slid enough Muggle money towards him to ensure that Potter received Granger's message five minutes ago. He pocketed it discreetly. "No worries, mate."

Draco acknowledged the bartender just enough as to not to alienate the fellow. Once the napkin and drink were in motion, he turned on his heel and made for the dance floor once more.

Tonight, after Granger's baby-sitting gig wrapped for the night—or morning—he was going to have her. She was going to be under him, over him, in his mouth and in his hands until Monday morning dawned bright and fresh. During the interim, he was going to make her listen to every to every wishful thought and iron-clad conviction he had about them.

It had taken him two years to reach this point. Salazar be _damned _if he was going to celebrate his twenty-sixth birthday without this witch at his side.

* * *

><p>Harry watched Malfoy saunter up to the bar. Then he lost sight of the tall blond as a sudden shift rippled throughout the second floor of the club.<p>

So far, the night was a strategic and logistical success. Despite having been given only three days—two, really—to develop and implement a comprehensive security plan, both teams were fulfilling their roles with all due skill and professionalism.

Granted, he was going to have to face the punishment Hermione would rain down on him for withholding Malfoy's identity as the name of their Freelancer. But even she'd have to admit, once he'd reassured that it would never happen again—until it did, of course—that Malfoy had been the best possible choice given the circumstances and the time constraints. The blond man and his friend Zabini had inserted themselves seamlessly into Arsuaga's circle; they were the perfect conduits.

Hermione would also know soon enough that Malfoy's motivations had very little to do with keeping Arsuaga safe or with facilitating the contract she had successfully negotiated, which was going to provide the very best raw materials, in the form of a vast array of flora necessary for healing draughts, elixirs, potions, and salves. The Arsuaga family farms were renowned for their outstanding cultivation of magical and non-magical plants.

Mentally, Harry delved into what he knew of Gianni de Arsuaga. From everything he'd read, he completely agreed with Hermione's assessment of the man. Arsuaga would be the last person to warrant a death threat. He was the fourth of five children. He had no allegiances other than to his own whims, which had included Hermione for the past two years, ever since she'd come into her position at DIWA. The man liked to spend money, bed men and women alike, and flaunt his family's name. The only thing the man did to cause a few raised eyebrows was pursue the title of 'celebutaunt' among Muggle 'Society'. Harry didn't doubt that Italy's version of the Wizarding Secrecy Act was similar to Britain's. Someone, somewhere, had to be worried about Arsuaga's need for personal exposure.

Pondering that, Harry asked himself the most obvious questions.

_Why _would anyone want Arsuaga dead? _Who _would want him dead? What would that person, or persons, stand to gain by assassinating the wannabe celebutaunt?

The appearance of a waitress didn't disturb his train of thought. She set down a drink he hadn't ordered with a modicum of grace and waited, expectantly, for him to say something. He nodded in understanding; she was flirting with him. He gave her a creepy grin—one he'd perfected for just such an occasion—and took a very small sip.

The dark amber liquor slipped down his throat with the smoothest burn he'd tasted in a long time. The choice of beverage and the precise lettering on the underlying napkin left him in no doubt as to who had sent it to him. He couldn't read the note until the waitress had moved on. He reached into the pocket of his coat, pulled out an extremely wrinkled note, dropped it on her tray and upped his perve-factor. The waitress scampered away and he was able to pick up where he'd left off before she'd delivered Malfoy's message.

He turned his gaze on the dance floor. It took a moment, but eventually the gyrating bodies shifted enough for him to catch a glimpse of Malfoy through the throng. Hermione was still out of sight. Surreptitiously, Harry read Hermione's conveyed message.

He ought to have been surprised, but he wasn't. This was just one more example of how Arsuaga loved to make Hermione's life difficult.

He chased that fact with another swallow of Malfoy's generosity, then crumpled the note and crammed it into one of his pockets.

A sudden thought flared bright and hot.

Since it didn't make sense that Arsuaga was the target, didn't it stand to reason that someone else, someone Arsuaga was connected to, _was_?

What if Arsuaga was just a means to access the true target?

Who could Arsuaga possibly be connected to that would draw the kind of attention of, provide the necessary motivation to, someone who'd have the means to hire an assassin?

The music changed. A slower-tempo song reverberated throughout the club. The dance floor was significantly less populated. He now had an unhindered view of Malfoy, Zabini, Arsuaga and Hermione.

Harry watched Arsuaga eye Malfoy and Hermione. Hermione watched Arsuaga. Malfoy clearly didn't like the way Arsuaga's gaze kept flitting to Hermione.

The common denominator…

Hermione!

The target wasn't Arsuaga! It never had been!

And Malfoy… Malfoy could get caught in the cross-fire and it would be all his, Harry's, fault!

_Sweet_ _Morgana_!

Harry's mind whirled. One action after another was discarded as soon as it was formulated.

Rationally, Harry had to admire the perpetrators' plan. Constellations was the best possible setting for the assassination of a magical person. The use of dampeners negated the use of magic. The selection of an extremely popular Muggle venue meant that there were too many non-magical people on-sight for the Ministry to sanction the deployment of a Memory Correction Squad if Harry decided to chuck out the Secrecy laws in favour of saving one of his own.

Secondary questions crowded in on his desperate need to protect his best friend: how did they, who ever 'they' were, know she'd be here?

The answer was right in front of him, literally.

_Gianni_ _de_ _Arsuaga_!

All the pieces of a puzzle that had refused to come together over the past four days suddenly started to snap into place: Arsuaga's sudden arrival with his too-good-to-pass-up export deal, his demand that Hermione be assigned to him, his insistence on avoiding wizarding London, the fact that Constellations was his choice…

Harry surged to his feet.

* * *

><p>She was right where he left her – under Blaise's watchful eyes.<p>

He made the most of his approach. He knew she was tracking his every step. He enjoyed her slight jump when he slid the back of his hand down her all but bare back only to bracket her hips with his palms.

He respected the fact that she was 'on duty' and that she took her need to protect such a useless prat seriously. But he wanted – _needed_ – another moment with her that was just between them.

He applied a bit of his strength and used it draw her nearly naked back flush against his chest.

He tilted his head so that his mouth hovered a scant inch from the shell of her ear. He made sure that she could hear his appreciation of her scent

"You're not going home tonight."

The music shifted. It became slower, more sultry, intensely provocative. It suited his intentions perfectly.

She tipped her head back. It fit all too neatly between his collarbone and heart.

"Is that so?"

Hermione's challenge carried a hint of raggedness. The combination spurred him on.

He encased her in his arms. It was she who now swayed them sensuously to the tempo of the music.

"Yes, it is." He gave her his guarantee. "And no running away afterwards." He held back the accusation in favour of enticing her to stay with him after they'd slaked their initial lust. "The things we're going to do…"

He detailed what they were going to do physically. What he held back from her was the fact that he wasn't going to let her go until she'd acknowledged what it was that had taken root between them. If the best way to breach her emotional defences was by pleasuring her mind and body, then so be it.

She separated his arms just enough so that she could turn and look at him directly. She was still close, though. Not close enough for his liking, but at the moment, it was all he could demand of her.

"What makes you think _that's_ what's going to happen?"

Oh how he loved it when his lioness all but reared up on her hind paws and dared him to step in front of her still-sheathed claws.

"Just because you want something, Draco, doesn't mean you're going to get it."

He felt his lips curl and his cheeks curve as a dozen possible responses pressed against the inside of his teeth. No, he definitely hadn't missed the faintest whisper of wistfulness that underscored her bravado. He crooked a finger and used it to lift her chin, to make sure she saw _exactly_ why he spoke in such absolutes.

"I'm _going_ to get what I want because that's what _you _want, Hermione."

* * *

><p>Something was wrong with him. He could feel it.<p>

The instincts that had seen him through childhood perils and numerous Auror missions had Harry scanning the area between the bar and the dance floor for a suspect.

_There!_

Someone—a face he couldn't see but the general build and height indicated a man—was threading his way through the crowd with a deliberateness and determination that didn't match the environment.

Harry's legs suddenly felt wobbly, like he'd been hit with a Jelly Legs jinx. He knew he hadn't. His vision was blurred and his disorientation came from within, not from some outside influence. He had to brace himself against the table lest he fall to the floor. With a concerted effort, he looked to see who he could call on for back up.

The entryway to the Observatory was unguarded. Harry's head pounded, but he forced himself to concentrate. He quartered the room and searched each section for…

A fight had broken out in the far corner. Two men were fighting over Tracey and the bouncers were trying to break it up!

A flash of syncopated light revealed Natalie and Victoria slumped in one of the padded arm chairs in the lounge area. Their eyes were closed and their limbs hung limp. Tall glasses on cocktail napkins rested on the low-lying table in front of them.

Harry glanced at his own drink, the one that waitress had insisted he drink in front her…

_Mordred's missing nut sack!_ Their drinks! They'd been spiked!

Another wave of wooziness washed over him.

He had to fight the effects… The man walking his way through the crowd exuded purpose and determination.

Harry had to get to Hermione, or at the very least, to Malfoy!

* * *

><p>His focus on her face shifted from sensual awareness to on-guard concentration, as he tried to follow why she'd tilted her head to the side and held up a hand to tell him that she was trying to listen for something she shouldn't be hearing.<p>

There it was again! The screech of feedback clawed at her back teeth. She _knew _she hadn't been hearing something that wasn't there. Her gaze darted from the spot on the floor, where she'd fixed it to minimize distractions, to the projectors mounted high over her head.

_There! The lights!_

The sudden barrage of erratically, unchoreographed, flashes of light confirmed it. There was an undampened witch or wizard nearby!

Hermione's mind and body dovetailed with her training and instincts. Someone had finally come for Arsuaga and she was the only one close enough to stop them!

"Go get Harry!" She all but shoved Draco away from her. Freelancer or not, she couldn't—wouldn't— take the chance of him getting caught in the crossfire. "Tell him: extraction point number four."

Malfoy's hand, the one he'd meant to use to snag her arm, closed around nothing but air. She was already forcing her way through the crowd, toward Arsuaga. Draco's knee-jerk reaction to protect her was unwelcome and unnecessary.

The sooner he learned that, the better they both be.

* * *

><p>Draco snarled at his empty hand. His witch, his Gryffindor lioness, wasn't to be caged. That didn't mean that he had to like the fact that she didn't hesitate to put herself, and the bit of himself that he'd already entrusted to her, between Arsuaga and the person intent on ending Arsuaga's life.<p>

A blur of movement had him turning on his heels. A drawn wand; the matching face vaguely familiar, but yet unnameable.

Behind him, the sounds of Hermione facilitating Arsuaga's escape were swallowed by the crowd. Zabini would follow her. He could trust his mate to do that for him. His focus stayed on the length of polished wood currently pointed in Arsuaga's direction.

Draco's adrenaline level spiked. Everything around him was minimized. The music was a dull whisper. The uncontrolled lights failed to distract him. The mental and physical charge of the crowd had no bearing on him. His focus was fixed on the wizard who held his wand at the ready.

No time to remove his dampeners. He relied on his athleticism to race against the swish-and-flick of man's hand.

Too late!

His shoulder collided with the other wizard a split second after a jet of red light—a _Stupefy_!—streaked across the dance floor. Reflexively, he tracked the spell. It struck the casement of the emergency exit just as Hermione wrestled, verbally and physically, a distraught Gianni through the hastily opened door. Zabini followed, shielding Hermione.

Draco's momentum sent both of them to the floor. He rolled to his knees, gained his feet a fraction of second before his opponent. Derrick—yes, now he recognized the man—held every advantage. Save one. No one threatened someone who was important to both Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy.

Sights and sounds rushed over him. Time reset. Draco heard the crowd chanting, _Fight! fight! fight!_ Audio feedback interrupted the music. Derrick's wand arm had risen again…

But the former Slytherin Beater never got a chance to fire-off a second spell. He hadn't counted on Draco Malfoy closing the gap between them, so that he couldn't use his wand, nor had he expected to land on his arse when the former Seeker's fist connected with his jaw.

* * *

><p>Thank you for reading!<p>

Who doesn't love AlphaDraco going all uber-protective over Hermione?

You know what else is 'love'? Sharing your thoughts via the 'Review' button!


	5. Chapter 5

Hello All~

Yep - my facination with Draco and Hermione continues!

This time, the story stemmed from an invite to pinch-hit for the Dhficexchange over at LiveJournal... Lots of good stuff there, my friends. I SO recommend checking it out! Here's the link, minus the spaces: http : / dramione - duet . livejournal . com /

This time, our intrepid Harry Potter characters are 25 years old, and this story completely disregards The Epilogue - may it long lay in infamy. The chapters are going to be erratic in length, mostly due to the cadence of the story!

As always, I'd LOVE to read what you think!

YOU ALL ROCK!

Here were the stipulations:

Dominant! Draco

Strong! Hermione

Compliancy: Post-DH, Epilogue? What Epilogue!

Era: Post Hogwarts

Rating: R, or, NC-17

HEA/HFN for Dramione

Absolutely NO Ron or Harry bashing; they're best friends!

Must contain the line: Men are from Mars, women are from Venus - where does that leave us?

* * *

><p><strong>The Italian Job: Chapter 5<strong>

* * *

><p>Derrick's interrogation had come to a standstill.<p>

Harry had the man's arm pressed high against his back, his grip on the Beater's wrist just shy of bone-cracking. The side of Derrick's face was squashed against the ceramic tiles that lined the floor and walls of the employees' loo. No one else was going to see just how little nobility and honour Harry Potter had when someone he loved was in danger.

Malfoy and Zabini lounged lethally against the sinks, just waiting to have a go at their former House-mate. Malfoy for the obvious reason— Hermione—Zabini because he was Malfoy's best mate, and hence protective of Hermione by association, and because he wanted a bit of payback for bruised, if not broken, ribs courtesy of Arsuaga, when the Italian turned the tables on him and Hermione in the emergency-exit stairwell.

"I'm not playing with you. Tell me what I need to know and—"

"Suck me, Potter," Derrick gasped, his breath short as Harry hiked his arm higher.

Like a man cutting in on another man's dance partner, Malfoy took over with a well-placed glance.

This wasn't working.

Draco's tendency for violence had always been tempered by his intelligence. Not that he couldn't get physical; not that his mind couldn't justify kicking the shite out of someone who was threatening—or worse—someone he cared about. Not that he didn't want to pummel the man bloody for his part in Hermione's kidnapping.

But what they needed were answers, and Derrick wasn't providing any. Potter might have it in him to mangle Derrick's soft tissues, but he was no Slytherin. It was time for the Gryffindor to learn another means of persuasion.

"Blaise?"

"Yeah, Dray?" Zabini was clutching his side, his injuries amped his dangerousness.

"You remember our friend, don't you?" The way he said 'friend' was drenched in loathing.

Zabini gritted his teeth. His disgust was very real. "Yeah, I reckon I do. Bit of a tosser, as I recall."

Potter looked at him, not interrupting the by-play, but clearly wanting to know where this was going. Draco acknowledged him long enough to make sure the man's Auror-ness wouldn't interfere.

"Remember his younger sister, Zabini?"

Blaise had taken up residence on Derrick's left, Draco on the man's right. Draco could feel the coolness of the tiles though the silk of his shirt and where his right hip touched the wall. "Don't you think she'd look simply _ravishing_ in stripes, Blaise?" Draco purred treacherously.

"There are few who do, Dray," Blaise leaned forward, his mouth closer to Derrick's ear. "Azkaban couture isn't for everyone, you know."

Potter's hold on Derrick only caused the man more pain as the implications registered. "What the fuck are you talking about! My sister has _never_—"

"It's a shame, really, Blaise. Someone like her…" He _tsk'd_ maliciously. "You'd think that she'd have the brains not to harbour Alecto Carrow, let alone help the witch escape in the first place."

A toothy, predatory look bloomed across Potter's face as he cottoned on to Draco's plan. Alecto Carrow was a wanted fugitive for crimes so heinous, The Kiss would be administered upon capture. Anyone caught aiding and abetting Carrow would become a Dementor's concubine.

"That's a _lie_!" Derrick shouted, his hot breath fogged the tiles.

Potter's lips curled wickedly. "I know that. Malfoy knows that. Zabini knows that, Derrick. But the Ministry doesn't." With Granger's life on the line, Draco knew that the Gryffindor would have no compunction about following through with his threat.

"Who do you think they're going to believe, Derrick? We're all reputable men and you're nothing but a hired thug who's conspired with a foreign national to kidnap Hermione Granger." Draco ruthlessly threw the truth of matter in the other man's face. "Tell us what we need to know and your sister's 'duplicity' will stay just between us."

With that, Derrick broke.

"I'm just the decoy!"

"I KNOW THAT!" Draco thundered. Potter forcibly pressed Derrick into the wall, hampering his ability to breathe. "Unlike yours, my intelligence hasn't waned with age. I couldn't care _less _what happens to your sister, you stupid bastard."

Derrick's mouth opened, words tumbled out quickly and without any specific order. "I was hired to distract, that's all! I needed the money! All I know is that there's a Portkey waiting for Arsuaga in Hyde Park. It's set to activate at one o'clock, London time."

Draco, Zabini and Potter each glanced at the clock mounted on the far wall. From here on out, time wasn't going to be their friend.

"Who's with him?" Zabini growled.

"No one—just him." Derrick's eye, the only one Draco could see, rolled in its socket, his panic level rising. "I swear—on my magic!— that's the truth. Hyde Park, one o'clock, just him and the Granger chit!"

Neither Draco nor his friend Zabini blinked when Potter grabbed the back of the man's head and smashed it into the tiles. Derrick had told them everything he knew, there were no more questions to ask which the Beater could adequately answer. It was clear that he'd had been hired to be captured. Too bad the Slytherin was too dumb to know that he'd been sold-out by the very person who'd hired him.

What did give Draco pause wasn't the way Derrick lay moaning and cradling his broken nose, but the way Potter was swaying on his feet.

"Someone spiked my drink, that's all." Potter explained casually, having guessed why Draco had given him a once-over. "I didn't ingest much of it, thankfully." Potter turned to Blaise. "What about you?"

"I'll live." Zabini looked at Draco, then back at Potter. "What's next?"

Potter nodded. "Find Ron. Tell him we'll meet him outside. We've got less than thirty minutes to transport Derrick and intercept Arsuaga."

Draco knew this was one night he wished Zabini would be at his side when he and Potter arrived at Hyde Park.

* * *

><p>The horrible sensation of constriction abated with a significant <em>crack<em>. The fact that they weren't Splinched beyond recognition when the man over-rode her dampeners was nothing short of a miracle. He must've drained almost all his magical reserve to do so, or was maniacal enough not to care if they re-emerge as one big tangle of interconnected body parts.

She teetered on her heels. The soft ground challenged her balance as much as the residual effect of forced Apparation. Arsuaga gave her no time to recover. He dragged her towards the nearest footpath and set a rapid pace. A sign mounted at the next junction told her where he'd taken her.

She didn't fight him. Not because he was bigger, stronger, or fundamentally deranged, but because someone like him would make a mistake sooner than later and she'd be better off conserving her energy until that opportunity arose. It suited her for him to believe that she was too intimidated to struggle.

She rolled her eyes at the predictability of Arsuaga's betrayal. _How trite!_ No wonder the concept of him being in danger had never made any sense to her or to Harry. The man was, ultimately, only a danger to himself.

A man like him wouldn't do well in prison. Separation from his hair products alone would be traumatic.

She decided to tell him that.

His backhanded slap across her cheek proved that he didn't appreciate the more considerate aspect of her personality.

She didn't give him the satisfaction of acknowledging that he'd hurt her. Instead, she decided to ride him with all the patronizing haughtiness of her inner eleven year old as her younger self told a young Ron Weasley, 'it's lev-i-_o_-sa, not lev-i-o-_sa_'.

"Do you even _know_ where you're going? You don't, do you?"

He grunted, and continued to tow her along.

"Have you ever _been _to Hyde Park before? Because _I_ don't think you have. If you _had_, you'd _know_..."

Taunts rolled off her tongue as he marched her further into the Park. The more she prodded him, the sooner he was likely to make a mistake. The sooner he made that mistake, the sooner she could take him down.

"You _know_, Gianni, if you'd only _ask _me how to get to wherever it is you obviously don't know, I'd be _glad _to direct you. After all, _I've_ been here before you know…"

The fundamental, universal given, that men refuse to ask for directions, grated on him. She could tell because he almost rose to her bait.

_Almost._

She continued to be condescending and snooty.

"Oh! _Now _I understand…" She drew out the word 'now'. She knew why they were still in the park and not elsewhere and she made sure he heard exactly how thick she knew he was. "You haven't found the Portkey yet. _That's _why we're doing this little stroll in the park."

_So close_…

Hell, Hermione was seriously annoying herself with her snottiness. Arsuaga's hold on his self control was fraying, but it hadn't snapped. Instead, he swore in Italian and quickened their pace.

Hermione refused to let up.

"Oh, _honestly_, Gianni, if you'd only _think _about what you're doing… You should know that—"

"_Chiuda in su; una non altra parola, capisce!_" He stopped and breathed deeply, then released his pent up breath slowly. He switched back to English and put his nose in her face. "Not. Another. Word. _Understand_."

"You don't scare me, you know."

A feral smile stretched his lips. Now _that_ made her feel a bit uneasy.

"You have _everything _to fear, _il mio caro_." Gianni's accent thickened by the moment. "Rodolphus and Rastaban have prepared a most special…_ricezione_… in honour of your impending arrival."

_Sweet Morgana!_ Gianni, she could handle. The Lestranges? Not a chance. She had every reason to act, and be, afraid.

Hermione planted her feet, making it difficult for Arsuaga to move her. "They're _mad_. You're _mad _for even getting into bed with them!"

"_Elemosino per differire_," he said, smoothly contradicting her assessment. "I'd say the more appropriate terms to describe theim would be 'criminally insane sociopaths'." His arrogance flowed. "As for myself, I'd say that I was clever enough to seize an opportunity that was offered to me and that I'm morally ambiguous enough not to care about what will happen to you once I deliver you to them."

His moment of over-confidence, her chance to escape!

She stamped a stiletto heel deeply into the softest part of his foot. A well-placed elbow connected with his nose and freed her from his grip as he automatically cupped his face. A hard shove to his chest propelled him several feet away from her.

Hermione ran in the opposite direction. Wherever the footpath forked, she randomly selected left and right branches.

A sudden yank on the ties that held her bodice together pitched her to the left. The only reason she didn't land on the ground was because Gianni had clamped his arm across her torso.

Left with precious few options, she did the last thing she could do to help herself.

She screamed.

She screamed loud and long. Gianni forced his handkerchief past her lips. The dry fabric filled her mouth, sticking to her palate, tongue, and the insides of her cheeks. She couldn't spit it out.

This time, as he hauled her across the park, she struggled. She fought. She wriggled. She writhed. Anything and everything to halt their progress.

The south side of the park was their destination. A secluded nook, complete with a bench and a lighted lamp post, was just ahead. On the bench lay a newspaper. Gianni force marched her towards it. A moment later she could read the banner. It was a copy of The Daily Prophet!

_The_ _Portkey_!

Hermione redoubled her efforts. She had no idea when it was set to activate, but once they left the park, once Arsuaga delivered her to the Lestranges… She didn't fancy the odds on succeeding at some sort of escape during the precious few seconds that would occur between the removal her dampeners and the tug of the Portkey.

Gianni seemed unfazed by the effort it was taking to keep her off-balance, to prevent her from using her leg muscles for leverage. He ran his hand over her hair, down the side of her face he hadn't hit. It was as if he was trying to sooth her, calm her down, get her to accept her fate as well as reprimand her for making him manhandle her. "To behave in such an undignified fashion," he _tsk'd_. He looked down his nose at her. "I'd say that you're not as smart as everyone says you are."

"Underestimating Granger's intelligence is proof that you've made another gross error in judgement."

_Draco!_

"The first error being the fact that you were foolish enough to do this in the first place."

_Harry!_

Two men, diametrically opposite in looks and styles, approached them from two different directions, sharing the same agenda. Neither wore dampeners and each held their wand at the ready.

"Like what you've done with your face." Draco sneered.

"Your lioness batted at me with her paw. But no matter. In a matter of moments, she'll be in the hands of those who know how to de-claw one such as her."

"Let her go, Arsuaga."

"And you'll do 'what', Potter? Let me go?" Gianni oozed derision.

"No." Harry's nonchalance was lethal. "You're going to let her go because we told you to."

"We all know how fond you are of taking orders, Arsuaga." Draco's cold and calculating demeanour was easily as dangerous as Harry's.

"No. I don't think that's going to happen." Arsuaga tilted Hermione's beaten cheek fully into the light, proof that he was serious about causing her harm. He step-shuffled them closer to the bench. "Do you really think this is about the life of some lowly Mudblood?"

Harry and Draco stepped carefully, inserting themselves as far as they dared between Gianni and the Portkey that he'd dragged her half way acrossLondonto reach.

"Yes. It is." Draco neatly deflected Arsuaga's attempt at misdirection.

Arsuaga laughed. "You're right." He ran a hand from just under her bare underarm, along the curve of her side, all the way to the waistband of her outfit. "Your uncles will so enjoy _il piacere della sua femminilità_, no? She'll provide them with hours of entertainment, yes?"

Draco's glower intensified. Harry's concentration deepened.

Arsuaga managed to manoeuvre Hermione another couple of feet before he called out, "Just think what kind of message it'll send to all the other Mudbloods when she's found dead. And the ramifications!" He was enjoying himself. "Imagine the fallout when it comes to light that the saviour of the wizarding world, the _boy _who killed Voldemort, couldn't save his best friend from a fate worse than…" He looked at Draco. "You remember how well your uncles take care of their… _toys_."

Pride and admiration rose alongside the bile that clawed at the back of her throat as Hermione watched Harry remain coiled and primed and Draco unflinchingly focused. Because of her, though, there was nothing they could do to stop Arsuaga from reaching the Portkey.

A sudden breeze wafted against her skin. It feathered Harry's hair and buffeted Draco's silk shirt.

Arsuaga leaned to the left, his grip on her as sure as ever, and tickled the newspaper until his fingers could pinch the pages enough to draw it into his palm. "Say goodbye to your Mudblood, gentlemen."

"Did you feel that, Potter?"

Harry leered at Arsuaga. "Such an odd breeze for such a still night, Malfoy."

"Tell me, Arsuaga." Draco's smirk dripped with the kind of confidence that they knew something Arsuaga didn't. "What time is it?"

Draco's look of amusement chilled Hermione to the bone; his unusual question lit a spark of triumph in Harry. "Because, according to Auror Davis's, it's now two minutes afterone o'clock."

"Your Portkey as _expired_, Arsuaga. And you've got no one to blame but yourself," Harry declared. His wand was levelled at the man's heart. "_Let. Her. GO_!"

The arm slung across Hermione's body tightened. Gianni started moving backwards, taking her with him. His free hand fumbled for something tucked into the back pocket of his trousers.

He had one more card to play. And whatever it was, it had Harry and Draco resetting their grips on their wands. "No matter." Something sharp and cold dug into the bare skin of Hermione's lower back.

"_That_," Draco seethed, his eyes on what she couldn't see and could only feel, "would be the _gravest_ error of judgement, Arsuaga."

Gianni shook his head, contradicting Draco's assessment of how their stand-off was going to play out. "I'll sink this blade into her. You might be able to hit me with a spell or two, but she'll bleed out before you or your little friend can say—"

"_Stupefy_!"

Gianni's dead weight suddenly fell sideways. His grip on Hermione brought her crashing down with him. The knife at her back nicked her skin but it didn't cut her badly.

"I don't bloody think so."

Draco lifted Arsuaga off Hermione and, with his help, she found her feet. Harry was right beside him, equally concerned. She fished the handkerchief out of her mouth and, bending at the waist, gagged as she drew lungfuls of air down her throat and forced her mouth to water as to drive the dryness away. She crossed her arms around her middle tightly and willed herself to breathe calmly.

"Are you all right?"

She traced the large, freckled, hand that didn't belong to either Draco or Harry on her shoulder to a face she was really glad to see.

_RON!_

Hermione ignored the dull throb in her head and the pain in her rasped-raw shoulder and upper arm. She knew that a dozen bruises were going to appear on different parts of her body over the next couple of hours, and that as soon as her adrenaline levels dropped, so would she. She also knew that if she didn't call attention to any of it, neither would Ron or Harry. One of the many perks of knowing each other so well.

"What took you so long?" Her broad smile struggled to match the first quip that came to her mind.

Wand still in hand, Ron grinned.

Then the adrenaline that had been sustaining her bottomed out. If it hadn't been for Draco's hand already at her waist, she would've become one with the foot path for the second time in five minutes.

Focusing on her breathing, controlling herself, she started to claw at her dampeners, tugging at the ties, loosening the knots, scraping the charmed arm-bands down, over her elbows, her wrists, shoving them the joints of her thumbs. Draco's hands slid underneath her hair and unclasped the dampener that hung around her neck. Wordlessly, he took them from her.

Indistinctly, she heard Ron start to give orders to various members of the team Harry must've assembled before he left Constellations.

It was Harry who told Draco to move her away from prying eyes.

Blatant, unadulterated anger underlay the cool detachment which had served Draco so well over the past hour.

It had enabled him to remain focused, even after Arsuaga had pulled out his knife and had been a flick of the wrist away from using it. The man had known his magic would be of no use so close to Granger's dampeners. There was no way even Salazar could have made sure that, had events played out differently and he and Potter had had to use their wands, their spells wouldn't have misfired. The gamble he and Potter had agreed to was one he didn't want to risk again any time soon.

He'd never thought he'd ever be grateful to Weaselbee—now, Weasley—for anything. But the ginger prat had delivered. With his best friend's life completely subject to his skills, Weasley managed to aim a difficult shot with perfect accuracy.

Draco respected the way Granger was holding herself in check. She wasn't a cold woman or a witch who thrived on indifference; her emotions ran deep. She was, however, just like him, Potter and Weasley, aware that she was very much on display. Hence her need to regain the use of her magic by scrabbling at her dampeners.

"Get her out of here, Malfoy." Potter spoke over her head, just as he could feel Granger's reserve start to fail her.

Draco passed her dampeners, still warm from her body heat, to Potter's waiting hand.

Then he pressed his fingers more firmly against her sides and looked at her. Her eyes were bright and nearly black with banked emotion. Her face was flushed with exertion. Her cheek had puffed up dramatically. Minute tremors were travelling beneath her skin.

Draco looked back to Potter, all but daring the Gryffindor to rescind the promise he'd made two nights ago. "How do I get past her wards?"

The incantations were complex and Potter provided them without hesitation.

Wand in hand, Hermione's head tucked underneath his chin, Draco left Potter and Weasley to tend to Arsuaga.

_They_ left _him_ to tend to Hermione.

* * *

><p>Don't we just love Protective!Draco?<p>

You know what else is 'love'? Reviews! How else am I going to know what you think of the story unless you tell me?


	6. Chapter 6

Hello All~

Yep - my fascination with Draco and Hermione continues!

This time, the story stemmed from an invite to pinch-hit for the Dhficexchange over at LiveJournal... Lots of good stuff there, my friends. I SO recommend checking it out! Here's the link, minus the spaces: http : / dramione - duet . livejournal . com /

This time, our intrepid Harry Potter characters are 25 years old, and this story completely disregards The Epilogue - may it long lay in infamy. The chapters are going to be erratic in length, mostly due to the cadence of the story!

As always, I'd LOVE to read what you think!

YOU ALL ROCK!

Here were the stipulations:

Dominant! Draco

Strong! Hermione

Compliancy: Post-DH, Epilogue? What Epilogue!

Era: Post Hogwarts

Rating: R, or, NC-17

HEA/HFN for Dramione

Absolutely NO Ron or Harry bashing; they're best friends!

Must contain the line: Men are from Mars, women are from Venus - where does that leave us?

* * *

><p><strong>The Italian Job: Chapter 6<strong>

* * *

><p>"What the <em>fuck<em>, woman! You trying to Splinch us?"

Two Apparitions in twenty seconds was enough to piss anyone off.

No sooner had he Side-Alonged Granger to her flat, than she curled her fingers around his wand and Apparated them back to Hyde Park.

Her face was drawn but determined. Her hands still shook, and tremors still rattled her body, but she was aware, and not hysterical or delusional.

Frankly, if she had been delusional, then his anger wouldn't be justified.

At least she'd Apparated them to a copse out of sight of where Potter, Weasley, and the rest of their team were still working.

"I need your shirt." She waved a hand in his direction.

It didn't take a Potions Master to suss out why she asked that of him.

"You've got to be kidding me, Granger."

"I had to come back, Draco." She implored him to understand. "I can't just… run away with you and let you take care of me when I've still got work to do."

"Yes, you can." Just because he didn't sound as emphatic as he knew should, didn't mean that he didn't mean what he said.

"You're right. I can," she conceded, a bit remorsefully. "And I'd be lying if I didn't admit that a big part of me wants to do just that."

He stepped closer to her, providing a buffer against the chill that comes with the small hours of the morning.

"But if I did, then I wouldn't be me. Harry and Ron need me."

He opened his mouth to contradict her, tell her that Potter and Weasley would be fine now that they knew she was safe; that they trusted him to take care of her when they couldn't, which was the reason he'd been involved in this whole thing from the get-go.

She shook her head wryly. "No, not like that; they don't need me like _that_, not any more." She looked at him squarely. "Arsuaga's a diplomat. They're going to need me to navigate all the red tape tonight's going to generate. The fight to keep him in the country even after formal charges are filed… If any mistakes are made now, Draco, it'll only help Arsuaga later."

He cursed Arsuaga, he cursed the complexities of international law, and he cursed the fact that all he could do was curse. She wasn't going to budge on this. At least her reasons were valid, and not caught up in her interpersonal relationships with Potter and Weasley. Weasley—cor, he was going to have a hard time calling that man by his proper name.

"Unfortunately, I can't walk into DIWA in this," she gestured to her outfit, completely acceptable for a place like Constellations, completely unacceptable for filing the most urgent paperwork and greeting department heads roused from their beds in the middle of the night.

Draco undid his buttons and shrugged out of his shirt so that he was left in just his leather trousers and tailored undershirt.

Leave it to Granger to make his cock stir with a reverse striptease.

She pulled her belt free and layered it over his shirt. The shirt was far too big, but the luxurious fabric, exquisite cut and rich hue suited her. It provided her with the semblance of modesty she needed in order to be effective.

"I'm getting that back, you know." He was already imagining what it would be like to take it off of her, inch by sensuous inch. Her scent would cling to it deliciously...

"You'll get it," she promised, seductively.

"I getting something else as well, before you go."

His meaning wasn't lost on her. She reached up and twined her hands behind his head.

"You are, are you?"

"Yes."

She wasn't going to deny him, not after three months of waiting and one night fraught with sexual tension and the likelihood of bodily harm.

He wound his strong arms around her, stroking her through the silk. His mouth parted and claimed her lips.

Every sweep of his tongue, nip at her lips, stroke to her gums and licks to her teeth, she returned just as ardently. A growl bubbled up from his chest, reverberating in his throat and he transferred it to her. His lioness purred beautifully for him in return.

She leaned into him until he took all her weight. His hands gripped the firm flesh of her bottom, roamed to fan across the subtle flare of her back, and burrowed into her soft, wavy hair.

With reluctance, she slowed their kiss. He didn't let her go until he'd pulled on her lips a few last times, savouring mews of frustration and grudging acquiescence.

He smirked. "You know what _I'd _rather be doing, Princess." She was feeling the same lack of fulfilment he was. "This is your doing, not mine."

"So it is," she sighed, but she wasn't going to change her mind. She drew in a deep breath, taking his air inside her, rolling his taste all over the inside of her mouth with her tongue. It was an effort for her lean away from him.

He watched as she smoothed his shirt back into place and ran a hand through the hair he'd just mussed. Possessiveness he had no business feeling spurred him to make sure she knew his understanding only went so far. "This is twice you've walked away from me tonight, Hermione. I won't let you do it again."

"I won't do it a third time, Draco." She looked at him with exactly the kind of expression he'd been hoping to see since they'd first fucked two years ago. "I won't need to."

A deep rumble thrummed through him. He lunged for her, swept her up and against him. He took everything her honest, succinct, words offered, promised. And, just as quickly, as he knew he couldn't trust himself to stop if they continued for much longer, he set her back on her feet.

But before he could step away, she cupped his prominent erection. "Save this for me."

"It's yours, Princess."

She licked her lips, temptation to give into their need ran rampant. But she backed down, reined it in. She pressed a palm to the side of his face, a caress he leaned into.

"I'll come to you, just as soon as I can. I promise."

Draco Malfoy knew he wasn't an easy man. He didn't deal with emotions well. He didn't think he ever would. But with her, somehow, that didn't matter.

"I'll hold you to that."

* * *

><p>Poor Draco! Poor Hermione! All revved up and now made to wait...<p>

Until the, alas, last chapter.

You know there's gotta be a pay-off for all this sexual tension - right?

Please - let me know what you think!


	7. Chapter 7

Hello All~

Yep - my fascination with Draco and Hermione continues!

This time, the story stemmed from an invite to pinch-hit for the Dhficexchange over at LiveJournal... Lots of good stuff there, my friends. I SO recommend checking it out! Here's the link, minus the spaces: http : / dramione - duet . livejournal . com /

This time, our intrepid Harry Potter characters are 25 years old, and this story completely disregards The Epilogue - may it long lay in infamy. The chapters are going to be erratic in length, mostly due to the cadence of the story!

As always, I'd LOVE to read what you think!

YOU ALL ROCK!

Here were the stipulations:

Dominant! Draco

Strong! Hermione

Compliancy: Post-DH, Epilogue? What Epilogue!

Era: Post Hogwarts

Rating: R, or, NC-17

HEA/HFN for Dramione

Absolutely NO Ron or Harry bashing; they're best friends!

Must contain the line: Men are from Mars, women are from Venus - where does that leave us?

* * *

><p><strong>Italian Job: Chapter 7<strong>

* * *

><p>"Do you mean to say that there's 'somewhere else' you'd rather be 'going', Mister Malfoy?"<p>

Hang the Ministry alongside the Ministry's need to do everything fecking thing in triplicate. Hermione wasn't the only one who had to back-track to the warren of subterranean paper-pushers in the wake of Arsuaga's arrest.

For three bloody hours, with his sleep-rumpled solicitor attached to his side, Draco was made to speak to one person after another about what he'd witnessed, why he'd been there in the first place, and this interview, the most ridiculous of them all, was all about how he _felt _about what had happened in Hyde Park.

"No, I did not." He repeated for the shock value, as well as the fact that it was the most dominant thought in his head, "I clearly stated: We're done now; there's _someone else _I'd rather be _doing_."

"Ah, yes… I see. Umm… Okay, Mister Malfoy." The under-secretary to some mid-level bureaucrat sitting behind a desk he clearly hadn't earned, fiddled with his quill. The man had no idea how to talk to, let alone 'handle' someone like Draco Malfoy. He did the only thing he could. "I think that's everything. You're free to go."

Draco wasn't even tempted to arch an eyebrow at the mousy little man. He was bored, anxious to get to Granger, and the combination set him decidedly on-edge. The way he swept out of the office, with the aristocratic airs taught to him by his mother and father, was enough to make the other man moisten his y-fronts.

His solicitor, a man who had passed over his own robes the moment he arrived so that Draco wasn't half-dressed in front of all and sundry, kept pace as he strode down the corridor. Draco walked him to the nearest Floo. They quietly agreed to meet on Tuesday to deal with any follow-up. Draco traded the neatly tied package the other man withdrew from his satchel for the robes he'd borrowed. Green flames flared. When they subsided, Draco stood alone. The package was wedged safely beneath his arm.

If a genie had suddenly appeared and offered him three wishes, he'd immediately have answered with: a bed, literally or figuratively; Granger; and twenty-four hours with Granger in her bed. Or his bed. It didn't matter whose bed, as long as it was a bed of some sort, Granger was in it, on it, or braced against it, and so that he could do things in the aforementioned bed with—and to—Granger.

The click-clack of heels striking the polished floor of the corridor made him believe, for just a moment, that wishes came true. Of the few people in the Ministry at half-past four in the morning on a Sunday, there was only one person he knew who'd be wearing ridiculously high heels and smelling like _him_.

He stood still and waited for her to reach his side.

She looked a little the worse for wear, but the bruise on her cheek was gone. She eyed the package with interest, but since he told her with a look that she'd find out about it later, she moved on. "Ready?"

"Like you have to ask, Granger."

She smirked wickedly at his implication. "One never knows with you, Malfoy. That's why I alwaysmake it a point to keep checking."

Her sass made him want her even more; what were a few scratches when one had the chance to tussle with a lioness?

He glanced up and down the hall before he leaned very close to her. "There are certain things you'll _n-e-v-e-r _have to guess at, Granger."

He drew enough Floo powder for both of them and tossed it into the fireplace. It was Granger who called out their actual destination.

* * *

><p>His hands were on her the moment he'd cleared her fireplace and tossed that mysterious package onto her coffee table.<p>

Warm, firm, determined and skilful—those were the only adjectives she had time to catalogue before his mouth descended on her lips and pure sensation travelled the length and breadth of her libido.

Her arms came up and clutched the muscles that bunched and released every time he sought a new area of her body to commit to memory.

Fingers nimble enough to balance the finest champagne flute, dexterous enough to reach and claim the most elusive Snitch, capable enough to sign off on business deals that spanned continents, and powerful enough to wield a hawthorn and unicorn hair wand, were applying all that training and experience to undressing her. Her belt fell to the floor, clanking when it landed on the carpet. The fingers slipped each button of her borrowed shirt free of its buttonhole, one at a time, with a deliberate slowness that was in direct contrast to the fervour with which he licked at every crevice of her mouth.

She could kiss him for hours. He had a mouth made to be kissed. Firm, well-shaped lips, and the ability make those lips one of the more formidable tools in his sexual repertoire.

She heard herself moan, she felt herself press against him. Her hands kneaded his back as she drew him as close to her as she could and he responded by lowering his arms. He stretched his fingers wide and filled his palms with her arse.

Her hands pushed his undershirt up and over his head.

He pulled away from her mouth; she rained kissed on his temples and hairline as he bent to taste the skin her outfit failed to cover. Clever licks from his tongue traced the inside curve of her breasts and small love bites peppered her skin from the not-so-gentle nips of teeth and lips.

_Sex, Hermione – remember to keep this about sex and nothing more_. The reason she'd run away from him three months ago was still valid, despite everything that had happened since.

"Shower time." She pulled back, and tugged on his hand, leading him out of her lounge, down the hall, and into her bathroom. "You've been saving something for me and I've decided that I want it _now_."

His eyes narrowed as he watched her turn on the shower and regulate the temperature. Something was up with his witch, and it was something to do with the sudden change that had come over her while they snogged each other senseless in her lounge.

She hadn't pulled away from him physically—that wasn't the problem because, if anything, she was more sexually aggressive and confident than ever. It was as if… It was as if… She was _her_, but she wasn't the woman who'd shagged him into the mattress three months ago; she was more like the woman who'd run away from him _after_ she'd shagged him to a state of bonelessness. He couldn't name it, but he didn't like it. And what he didn't like, he was determined to change.

He locked his gaze with hers and offered her his hand.

He hoped she'd understand that his invitation was only partly to do with helping her into the shower, and more to do with asking her one last time whether he, and by extension, this thing that had grown between them, was what she still wanted.

They stepped into the shower.

The small pool of fresh-smelling soap, scented with notes of fresh grass and ocean breeze, became handfuls of fragrant lather that they spread over each other's bodies.

Rinsed clean, the urge—the _need_—to have her surged powerfully. Draco pushed Hermione forward, until her arms were braced against the front wall of the shower. He cupped a palm to her calf and lifted it until her foot rested on the spigot. He ran a hand up her thigh and gripped her hip, spread his legs, and slid his cock home.

Hot water beat on his chest and the tightest, wettest woman he'd ever been inside intimately clutched him. He set a pace that made her tilt her head towards the ceiling and cry out his name with every push and pull of his cock.

He needed more contact.

He leaned forward and drew her up right, adjusting his angle as she settled against him, and step-stumbled backwards, until his back met the wall of the shower. Bending at his knees, he held her with one arm flush against his body and used his free hand to tantalize her further by heaping sensual pleasures on her breast. Her arm snaked out. She found leverage by holding onto the shower head and lifting her foot against the wall. He took full advantage of her exposed neck.

"That's it, Princess." He breath was harsh and fast against her heated flesh. "Feel that? Do you? Been saving this," he pumped into her, "just for you."

She moaned deliciously. "Yes, _gods,_ _yes_; you're so deep, so good."

"That's right. It's me that's inside you, fucking you so hard." His hand left her breast and pulled open her pussy lips so that the cascading water pounded her clit. "You're going to come for me, Hermione. You're going to come so hard, aren't you?"

"Uh, huh," she purred, "yes, yes, _yes_."

"Do it, Princess. Show me how you _come_."

"You know—you've seen me before…"

He chastised her with extra deep strokes that triggered a slew of incoherent words from each of them. Slowing down his pace to something more… leisurely… Draco panted roughly into her ear. "Not like _this_, Hermione. Not when you know there's no reason to run away from me, from us, from how it feels when we're together..."

A deep tremor shook her body. "I'm so close, Draco!"

"This is only round one, Princess. This is to warm you up so that you'll be able to take what we do next." His promise sent her keening into the steam that billowed around them. "You're going to teach me how to lick your pussy and make your clit big and juicy. Your going to _show _me."

He could feel his own orgasm rattling the insides of his thighs and snaking along his rigid erection. He was as close as she was. "Come for me, Hermione. Reach for it. _Take it!_"

"Oh, my, _gods_ – _Draco_!"

He held onto to her as she bucked, the throes of her orgasm making her jerk in his arms and erratically squeeze his cock as powerful contractions quaked up and down her pussy.

He clamped his arms down on her, keeping her impaled on his length as his ejaculation ended in a yowl that left his throat raw, and rocked the bones in his body.

Hermione wasn't much steadier. Her breath was still ragged and aftershocks were making her tremble.

He was loathe to let her go, so he didn't.

He kept her close even as he slipped from her body, reached around her, and cut off the water. He pulled her head back to the ridge of his collar bone and kissed her deeply with broad, sweeping, swipes of his tongue and sweet suction of his lips. He helped her out of the shower and towelled her off before he wiped himself down. He dried their hair with a whispered spell. His smug male pride exulted at the way he'd reduced her to a state of complete lethargy.

He swept her up, one arm beneath her knees and the other across her back, and carried her to her bed. He set her down long enough to peel back the covers and then tucked her in, climbing in beside her.

He'd let her rest for a little while.

Then he'd make good on the promise he'd made to her and himself.

* * *

><p>Delicate strokes circled her breasts and caressed the expanse of her stomach. Manicured nails combed her pubic hair and nimble fingers separated her nether lips.<p>

She peered down at a very dishevelled Draco Malfoy as he got up-close-and-personal with her pussy.

"It hasn't changed since last time, you know."

"Oh yes it has, Princess." He looked up at her, the significance of what lay between them exposed by his double entendre.

She'd meant her comment about her physiology to show how casual she thought she'd have be about what they'd done, but Draco… Draco obviously wasn't. Could it be that something _had _changed with him, with _them_?

Could she trust him?

Draco Malfoy led the kind of lifestyle that was underwritten by money and privilege.

Could he trust her?

The rules by which she lived her life were subject by her current circumstance. Umbridge had banned wand-work in class, she deemed that unacceptable, hence she, with Harry's help, founded the DA. It was wrong for the Ministry to condemn Buckbeak and Sirius, so she, again with Harry's help, turned back time to prevent those travesties. Rules were important, except when her own moral compass, or the needs of those she cared about and loved, stripped them of their relevancy.

In that light, Draco had more cause to distrust her than she did him.

Now that was an eye opener.

Her lack of timely response earned her a nip to her still-sensitive clit. She squirmed as his mouth repeated his particular choice of punishment.

He took her lack of a reprimand as permission to crawl up her body. She watched him take his position between her legs and, keeping her legs tightly closed, slip his hard cock back into her.

_Good Godric, he filled her perfectly_!

He worked a hand between their bodies and, with some gentle manoeuvrings, he splayed her labia and aligned himself so that his pubic bone ground against her clit and his rock-hard length continued to spear her deeply.

"I have a proposal for you, Granger." He used his elbows to prop up his upper body while maintaining constant, all too stimulating, pressure on her clit.

How did he expect her to think while he had her impaled? His breathing vibrated her entire vulva.

"What's that, Malfoy?" Her eyes rolled with sensual bliss as he shifted slightly, reaching for something she couldn't see.

A beautifully crafted, braided golden cord came into view.

"Is that what was in that package?"

"Yes. It was crafted for an ancestor of mine who had blood ties to both the Black and Malfoy families." He licked his lips but didn't kiss her. "There's a lot that's unsettled between us, Hermione." The use of her given name conveyed how much thought he'd put into this. "Right now, we're very different people who have as many differences as we have things in common."

She had to agree with that. It was one of the reasons she'd never actively sought him out over the past two years, but also why she never denied herself the opportunity to be with him—except after they'd had sex at Augusta Longbottom's birthday party—either.

"I believe that the things we have in common are more fundamental than our differences, and that our differences stem from our lack of understanding of each other."

"I'd agree with that." She gave into the need to grind against him, to feel him move inside her. He 'rewarded' her initiative by paying overdue attention to her nipples. "What do you propose?"

He lifted his mouth off her tender peak so that he could look at her properly. "Hermione Granger, will you hand-fast yourself to me? Give us a year and a day to see if what we have is something worth making permanent or if it's just good sex between two consenting adults, with nothing to sustain a long-term romantic relationship. If we decide that we do have something special, great. If we don't, we both walk away with nothing but fond memories and a lasting friendship."

He was offering her all the trappings of an engagement minus the impending commitment of marriage and the ensuing societal obligations. Wizarding Hand-Fasting guaranteed fidelity, fostered loyalty, and connected the two parties' individual magics so that an intimacy on the most elemental level would exist between them for the rest of their lives.

Would it really be so bad to be linked so intrinsically to Draco should they decide to part ways in a year and a day? Because, as she and, apparently he, saw it, that was the only real risk they faced. Harry had already given her his blessing, and Ron would come around, too.

Hermione smiled. She could do this! His proposal proved that what she felt for him wasn't one sided.

"Yes." She nodded, the rightness of her decision thrumming through her. "What do we have to do?"

His smile reached his eyes. His jostling as he wrapped one end of the cord around the ring finger of her left hand and the opposite end around the ring finger of his left hand caused him to also rock deeper into her pussy. "This is for fidelity."

He then looped a bit of the slack around the breadth of their hands, making sure to lay the cord on top of their life lines. "This is to connect our lives, our loyalties."

She knew what the next part would be. And, as a 'reward' for him, she clenched her inner muscles around his still hard cock, sending a look of utmost concentration across his face and a powerful shudder throughout his body, which was then intimately returned to her. "Do that again and this is going to be over before we both know how good it could've been."

"Promises, promises," she teased.

He kissed her hard, his control sorely tested. "Always."

She wound the remaining inches of the cord around their wrists, over their pulse points. "This signifies blood, our magics."

He nodded. "Now watch this."

She did. The two remaining ends, what little remained, fused together.

The cord glimmered and then glowed. An infusion of magic pulsated through her. She was incapable of not bucking against Draco, spurred by the need he'd built by not moving inside her.

"Now, Hermione, we _ride_."

She rolled them over and, maintaining their connection both with the cord and with their bodies, she straddled him, and leaned forward, their bound hands interlocked tightly, their lips and tongues ardently engaged.

And the term 'consummation' was inadequate to describe the physical sealing of their Bond.

* * *

><p>That be all, my friends!<p>

Whatcha think?


	8. Chapter 8: Extended Ending

It has dawned on me that ffnet is the only site that doesn't have the extended, slightly sexier, ending of this story! YIKES! Sorry!

So... here it is!

.

* * *

><p><span><strong>Italian Job: Extended Ending<strong>

* * *

><p>.<p>

"Do you mean to say that there's 'somewhere else' you'd rather be 'going', Mister Malfoy?"

Hang the Ministry alongside the Ministry's need to do every fecking thing in triplicate. Hermione wasn't the only one who had to back-track to the warren of subterranean paper-pushers in the wake of Arsuaga's arrest.

For three bloody hours, with his sleep-rumpled solicitor attached to his side, Draco was made to speak to one person after another about what he'd witnessed, why he'd been there in the first place, and this interview, the most ridiculous of them all, was all about how he 'felt' about what had happened in Hyde Park.

"No, I did not." He repeated for the shock value, as well as the fact that it was the most dominant thought in his head, "I clearly stated: _We're done now; there's someone else I'd rather be doing_."

"Ah, yes… I see. Umm… Okay, Mister Malfoy." The under-secretary to some mid-level bureaucrat, the one who sat opposite him and tucked behind a desk he clearly hadn't earned, fiddled with his dicto-quill. The man had no idea how to talk to, let alone 'handle', someone like Draco Malfoy.

He did, and said, the only thing he could. "I think that's everything. You're free to go."

Draco wasn't even tempted to arch an eyebrow at the mousy little man. He was bored, anxious to get to Granger, and the combination set him decidedly on-edge. The way he swept out of the office, with the aristocratic airs taught to him by his mother and father, was enough to make the other man moisten his y-fronts.

His solicitor, a man who had passed over his own robes the moment he arrived so that Draco wasn't half-dressed in front of all and sundry, kept pace as he strode down the corridor. Draco walked him to the nearest Floo. They quietly agreed to meet on Tuesday to deal with any follow-up. Draco traded the neatly tied package the other man withdrew from his satchel for the robes he'd borrowed. Green flames flared. When they subsided, Draco stood alone. The package was wedged safely beneath his arm.

If a genie had suddenly appeared and offered him three wishes, he'd immediately have answered with: a bed, literally or figuratively; Granger; and twenty-four hours with Granger in her bed. Or his bed. It didn't matter whose bed, as long as it was a bed of some sort, Granger was in it, on it, or braced against it, and so that he could do things in the aforementioned bed with—and to—Granger.

The click-clack of heels striking the polished floor of the corridor made him believe, for just a moment, that wishes came true. Of the few people in the Ministry at half-past four in the morning on a Sunday, there was only one person he knew who'd be wearing ridiculously high heels and smelling like him.

He stood still and waited for her to reach his side.

She looked a little worse for wear, but the bruise on her cheek was gone. Shacklebolt was known to have competent Healers on retainer, available regardless of day or hour.

She eyed the package with interest, but since he told her with a look that she'd find out about it later, she moved on. "Ready?"

"Like you have to ask, Granger."

She smirked wickedly at his implication. "One never knows with you, Malfoy. That's why I _always_ make it a point to keep checking."

Her sass made him want her even more; what were a few scratches when one had the chance to tussle with a lioness?

He glanced up and down the hall before he leaned very close to her. "There are certain things you'll _n-e-v-e-r_ have to guess at, Granger."

He drew enough Floo powder for both of them and tossed it into the fireplace. It was Granger who called out their actual destination.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

His hands were on her the moment he'd cleared her fireplace and tossed that mysterious package onto her coffee table.

Warm, firm, determined and skilful—those were the only adjectives she had time to catalogue before his mouth descended on her lips and pure sensation travelled the length and breadth of her libido.

Her arms came up and clutched the muscles that bunched and released every time he sought a new area of her body to commit to memory.

Fingers nimble enough to balance the finest champagne flute, dexterous enough to reach and claim the most elusive Snitch, capable enough to sign off on business deals that spanned continents, and powerful enough to wield a hawthorn and unicorn hair wand, were applying all that training and experience to undressing her. Her belt fell to the floor, clanking when it landed on the carpet. The fingers slipped each button of her borrowed shirt free of its buttonhole, one at a time, with a deliberate slowness that was in direct contrast to the fervour with which he licked at every crevice of her mouth.

She could kiss him for hours. He had a mouth made to be kissed. Firm, well-shaped lips, and the ability make those lips one of the more formidable tools in his sexual arsenal.

She heard herself moan, she felt herself press against him. Her hands kneaded his back as she drew him as close to her as she could and he responded by lowering his arms. He stretched his fingers wide and filled his palms with her arse.

Her hands pushed his undershirt up and over his head.

He pulled away from her mouth; she rained kisses on his temples and hairline as he bent to taste the skin her slaggy outfit failed to cover. Clever licks from his tongue traced the inside curve of her breasts and small love bites peppered her skin from the not-so-gentle nips of teeth and lips.

_Sex, Hermione – remember to keep this about sex and nothing more_. The reason she'd run away from him three months ago was still valid, despite everything that had happened since.

"Shower time." She pulled back, and tugged on his hand, leading him out of her lounge, down the hall, and into her bathroom. "You've been saving something for me and I've decided that I want it now."

His eyes narrowed as he watched her turn on the shower and regulate the temperature. Something was up with his witch, and it was something to do with the sudden change that had come over her while they snogged each other senseless in her lounge.

She hadn't pulled away from him physically—that wasn't the problem because, if anything, she was more sexually aggressive and confident than ever. It was as if… It was as if… She was her, but she wasn't the woman who'd shagged him into the mattress three months ago; she was more like the woman who'd run away from him after she'd shagged him to a state of bonelessness. He couldn't name it, but he didn't like it. And what he didn't like, he was determined to change.

He locked his gaze with hers and offered her his hand.

He hoped she'd understand that his invitation was only partly to do with helping her into the shower, and more to do with asking her one last time whether he, and by extension, this thing that had grown between them, was what she still wanted.

They stepped into the shower.

The small pool of fresh-smelling soap, scented with notes of fresh grass and ocean breeze, became handfuls of fragrant lather that they spread over each other's bodies.

Rinsed clean, the urge—the need—to have her surged powerfully. Draco pushed Hermione forward, until her arms were braced against the front wall of the shower. He cupped a palm to her calf and lifted it until her foot rested on the outside lip of the tub. He ran a hand up her thigh and gripped her hip, spread his legs, and slid his cock home.

Hot water beat on his chest and the tightest, wettest woman he'd ever been inside intimately clutched him. He set a pace that made her tilt her head towards the ceiling and cry out his name with every push and pull of his cock.

He needed more contact.

He leaned forward and drew her up right, adjusting his angle as she settled against him, and step-stumbled backwards, until his back met the wall of the shower. Bending at his knees, he held her with one arm flush against his body and used his free hand to tantalize her further by heaping sensual pleasures on her breast. Her arm snaked out. She found leverage by holding onto the shower head and lifting her foot against the wall. He took full advantage of her exposed neck.

"That's it, Princess." His breath was harsh and fast against her wet, heated flesh. "Feel that? Do you? Been saving this," he pumped into her, "just for you."

She moaned deliciously. "Yes, _gods, yes_; you're so deep, so good."

"That's right. It's me that's inside you, fucking you so hard." His hand left her breast and pulled open her pussy lips so that the cascading water pounded her clit. "You're going to come for me, Hermione. You're going to come so hard, aren't you?"

"Uh, huh," she purred, "yes, yes, yes."

"Do it, Princess. Show me how you come."

"You know—you've seen me before…"

He chastised her with extra deep strokes that triggered a slew of incoherent words from each of them. Slowing down his pace to something more… leisurely… Draco panted roughly into her ear. "Not like this, Hermione. Not when you know there's no reason to run away from me, from us, from how it feels when we're together..."

A deep tremor shook her body. "I'm so close, Draco!"

"This is only round one, Princess. This is to warm you up so that you'll be able to take what we do next." His promise sent her keening into the steam that billowed around them. "You're going to teach me how to lick your pussy and make your clit big and juicy. You're going to _show_ me."

He could feel his own orgasm rattling the insides of his thighs, underneath his arse and snaking along his rigid erection. He was as close as she was. "Come for me, Hermione. Reach for it. _Take_ _it_!"

"Oh, my, gods – _Draco_!"

He held onto to her as she bucked, the throes of her orgasm making her jerk in his arms and erratically squeeze his cock as powerful contractions quaked up and down her pussy.

He clamped his arms down on her, keeping her impaled on his length as his finish ended in a yowl that left his throat raw, and rocked the bones in his body.

Hermione wasn't much steadier. Her breath was still ragged and aftershocks were making her tremble.

He was loathe to let her go, so he didn't.

He kept her close even as he slipped from her body, reached around her, and cut off the water. He pulled her head back to the ridge of his collar bone and kissed her deeply with broad, sweeping, swipes of his tongue and sweet suction of his lips. He helped her out of the shower and towelled her off before he wiped himself down. He dried their hair with a whispered spell. His smug male pride exulted at the way he'd reduced her to a state of complete lethargy.

He swept her up, one arm beneath her knees and the other across her back, and carried her to her bed. He set her down long enough to peel back the covers and then tucked her in, climbing in beside her.

He'd let her rest for a little while.

Then he'd make good on the promise he'd made to her and himself.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

Delicate strokes circled her breasts and caressed the expanse of her stomach. Manicured nails combed her pubic hair and nimble fingers separated her nether lips.

She peered down at a very dishevelled Draco Malfoy as he got up-close-and-personal with her pussy.

"It hasn't changed since last time, you know."

"Oh yes it has, Princess." He looked up at her, the significance of what lay between them exposed by his double entendre.

She'd meant her comment about her physiology to show how casual she thought she'd have to be about what they'd done, but Draco… Draco obviously wasn't. Could it be that something had changed with him, with them?

Could she trust him?

Draco Malfoy led the kind of lifestyle that was underwritten by money and privilege.

Could he trust her?

The rules by which she lived her life were subject by her current circumstance. Umbridge had banned wand-work in class, she deemed that unacceptable, hence she, with Harry's help, founded the DA. It was wrong for the Ministry to condemn Buckbeak and Sirius, so she, again with Harry's help, turned back time to prevent those travesties. Rules were important, except when her own moral compass, or the needs of those she cared about and loved, stripped them of their relevancy.

In that light, Draco had more cause to distrust her than she did him.

Now that was an eye opener.

Her lack of timely response earned her a nip to her still-sensitive clit. She squirmed as his mouth repeated his particular choice of punishment.

He took her lack of a reprimand as permission to crawl up her body. She watched him take his position between her legs and, keeping her legs tightly closed, slip his hard cock into her.

Good Godric, he filled her perfectly!

He worked a hand between their bodies and, with some gentle manoeuvrings, he splayed her labia and aligned himself so that his pubic bone ground against her clit and his rock-hard length continued to spear her deeply. From navel to knee, they were pressed together. Subtle rocking motions penetrated her, on more levels, then any other sexual encounter she'd ever experienced.

"I have a proposal for you, Granger." He used his elbows to prop up his upper body while maintaining constant, all too stimulating, pressure on her clit.

How did he expect her to think while he had her impaled? His breathing vibrated her entire vulva.

"What's that, Malfoy?" Her eyes rolled with sensual bliss as he shifted slightly, reaching for something she couldn't see.

A beautifully crafted, braided golden cord came into view.

"Is that what was in that package?"

"It was crafted for an ancestor of mine who had blood ties to both the Black and Malfoy families."

He licked his lips but didn't kiss her. It was like he was using his cock to prove the physical connection they shared; he was using his eyes to showcase their meta-physical connection.

"There's a lot that's unsettled between us, Hermione." The use of her given name conveyed how much thought he'd put into this. "Right now, we're very different people who have as many differences as we have things in common."

She had to agree with that. It was one of the reasons she'd never actively sought him out over the past two years, but also why she never denied herself the opportunity to be with him—except after they'd had sex at Augusta Longbottom's birthday party—either.

"I believe that the things we have in common are more fundamental than our perceived differences. I also believe that our differences stem from our lack of understanding of each other."

"I'd agree with that." She gave into the need to grind against him, to feel him move inside her. He 'rewarded' her initiative by paying overdue attention to her nipples. She mewed as he mumbled, 'delicious raspberries', against her tightly furled tips. It was a wonder she could even think, let alone continue. "What do you propose?"

He lifted his mouth off her tender peak so that he could look at her properly.

"Hermione Granger, will you hand-fast yourself to me? Give us a year and a day to see if what we have is something worth making permanent or if it's just good sex between two consenting adults, with nothing to sustain a long-term romantic relationship. If we decide that we do have something special, great. If we don't, we both walk away with nothing but fond memories and a lasting friendship."

He was offering her all the trappings of an engagement minus the impending commitment of marriage and the ensuing societal obligations. Wizarding Hand-Fasting guaranteed fidelity, fostered loyalty, and connected the two parties' individual magics so that an intimacy on the most elemental level would exist between them for the rest of their lives.

Would it really be so bad to be linked so intrinsically to Draco should they decide to part ways in a year and a day? Because, as she and, apparently he, saw it, that was the only real risk they faced. Harry had already given her his blessing, and Ron would come around, too.

Hermione smiled. She could do this! His proposal proved that what she felt for him wasn't one sided.

"Yes." She nodded, the rightness of her decision thrumming through her. "What do we have to do?"

His smile reached his eyes. His jostling as he wrapped one end of the cord around the ring finger of her left hand and the opposite end around the ring finger of his left hand caused him to also rock deeper into her pussy. "This is for fidelity."

He then looped a bit of the slack around the breadth of their hands, making sure to lay the cord on top of their life lines. "This is to connect our lives, our loyalties."

She knew what the next part would be. And, as a 'reward' for him, she clenched her inner muscles around his still hard cock, sending a look of utmost concentration across his face and a powerful shudder throughout his body, which was then intimately returned to her. "Do that again and this is going to be over before we both know how good it could've been."

"Promises, promises," she teased.

He kissed her hard, his control sorely tested. "Always."

She wound the remaining inches of the cord around their wrists, over their pulse points. "This signifies blood, our magics."

He nodded. His gaze was locked on her, as much as their hands, and their lives – for the next year and a day – were locked together. "Now watch this."

She did. The two remaining ends, what little remained, fused together.

The cord glimmered and then glowed. An infusion of magic pulsated through her. She was incapable of not bucking against Draco, spurred by the need he'd built by not moving inside her.

"Now, Hermione, we ride."

She rolled them over and, maintaining their connection both with the cord and with their bodies, she straddled him, and leaned forward, their bound hands interlocked tightly, their lips and tongues ardently engaged.

Her hips rolled, grinding her clit deliciously against the hard planes surrounding his crotch. Where he found leverage, she could only guess, but the pressure on her vulva only increased every time he pressed into her.

The cord around their fingers, hand, and wrists pulsed in time with their rhythm. Deep penetrations from him and her reciprocating upward thrusts thrummed along their connection. Lips and tongues massaged and plundered, each seeking sensual treasures buried with each others mouths, along necklines and the soft, sensitive expanse of each other's throats.

Angling her head, she reached for his Adam's Apple with her mouth. She nipped, suckled, and laved the sexy protrusion, feeding off of the purrs of enjoyment that her attentions caused him.

"Do you feel me, Hermione?"

The breath he used for his words puffed against her dampened brow.

"I feel you, Draco – I feel you everywhere."

Her honesty surprised her. It seems that she couldn't deny him anymore than she knew he couldn't deny her.

Never had she felt so… intimate. She could ask him for anything and she knew he wouldn't deny her. It was like… It was like… It was like the man wasn't only making love to her body. It was like the man was making love to her mind, body and her soul.

His free hand slipped underneath the top of her right shoulder. His strong arms flexed as he hooked his wrist. Her free arm caressed him, from where his arm joined his body, down the length of his torso, to his hip, finally settling on the swell of his arse. She, too, latched onto him, just as he had latched onto her.

Light, sound – other than the glow in his eyes and their panting breath and syncopation of skin sliding against skin – faded. He was everywhere; they were pressed together from chest to knee, her breasts cushioning his hardness, her femininity glorified by his matching maleness.

Her orgasm, the one that had begun to coil oh-so-tightly in her lower belly, was poised to unravel brilliantly. It was going to be huge, body-encompassing. She wanted him to join her.

"Finish with me, Draco – please!"

He groaned, sweat and an inner glow radiated off of him. "Never, Hermione – I'll never finish with you." He stilled. That alone was nearly enough to set her off. But, straining, she held off, caught up in his passion. "I'll never be finished with you."

Comprehension was the last thing she remembered before his lips on her mouth matched the possessive pounding he unleashed on her pussy.

Sensation after emotion after sensation rocketed though her, upwards though him, and back around. Her body thrashed underneath his as he himself unleashed a torrent of endearments and promises she only half-heard.

The cord at their wrists flared with each of her contractions around his hard cock and his powerful twitch of his pleasure. With a final pulse, the cord separated, the ends dangling.

Lifting a trembling hand, she shifted soft platinum hair off of Draco's forehead. His head had fallen next to her, his hand still clasped with hers, his arm still hooked around her shoulder. His cock, still buried to the hilt inside her, was bathed in a brew of their own creation.

It was moment, it could have been fifteen minutes, it could have been an hour. His heaviness wasn't too much for her. In fact, if he had pulled out and rolled over after sharing something like that, she would've felt, emotionally and physically, deprived. It was soft, languid, reverent kisses that roused her from her sensual stupor. A gentle nuzzle, his nose to her cheek, had her turning her head to the left, so that she could see what he wanted her to look at.

Where the two ends of the hand-fasting cord had fused, three runes were now tattooed the underside of their wrists.

Jera

Eihwaz

Gebo

Laugher bubbled up from deep inside her. A genuine grin spread across his face.

For the next three-hundred and sixty-six days, he was hers, just as she was his.

* * *

><p>Chapter End Notes:<p>

Gebo: (G: Gift.) Gifts, both in the sense of sacrifice and of generosity, indicating balance. All matters in relation to exchanges, including contracts, personal relationships and partnerships. Gebo Merkstave (Gebo cannot be reversed, but may lie in opposition): Greed, loneliness, dependence, over-sacrifice. Obligation, toll, privation, bribery.

Jera: (J or Y: A year, a good harvest.) The results of earlier efforts are realized. A time of peace and happiness, fruitful season. It can break through stagnancy. Hopes and expectations of peace and prosperity. The promise of success earned. Life cycle, cyclical pattern of the universe. Everything changes, in its own time. Jera Merkstave (Jera cannot be reversed, but may lie in opposition): Sudden setback, reversals. A major change, repetition, bad timing, poverty, conflict.

Eihwaz: (EI: Yew tree.) Strength, reliability, dependability, trustworthiness. Enlightenment, endurance. Defense, protection. The driving force to acquire, providing motivation and a sense of purpose. Indicates that you have set your sights on a reasonable target and can achieve your goals. An honest man who can be relied upon. Eihwaz Reversed or Merkstave: Confusion, destruction, dissatisfaction, weakness

Source: avail upon request


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